
*>~ 



VCtK. 



HOLMES'S 

POETICAL 

WORKS 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 



"PS. \ c \5t 

Chap. Copyright No. 

Shelf.-!-Ai~ 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



HOLMES'S POEMS 



^Sfc. 




Oliver Wendell Holmes at the age of seventy 



THE COMPLETE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 






OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 



library (Edition 



ILLUSTRATED WITH PHOTOGRAVURES 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 



MDCCCC 



1 



73221 



17" 

'Lionu; ol Conur«ea 

J tew lUttU KtCtiVED 

NOV 9 1900 

Copyright entry 

SECOND COPY. 

Delivered te 

ORDER DIVISION, 

NOV 24 19GU 



t 






^ 






COPYRIGHT, 1858, 1859, 18G1, 1862, 1S65, 1872, 1874, 1875, 1877, 

1878, 1880, 1881, 1882, 1886, 1887, 1888, 1889, 1890, 1891, 1895, 1900, 

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO. 

AND HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 



All rights reserved. 



PUBLISHERS' NOTE 

The present Library Edition of Dr. Holmes's Poems gathers all the 
poems which the author wished to preserve. He took the opportunity 
when the Riverside Edition was published, about three years before his 
death, to make a definitive edition, and in the present volume all the 
poems then assembled have been retained, and there have been added 
the poems written after the Riverside Edition was collected, and a few 
which had plainly escaped the author's notice. A brief biographical 
sketch gives a resume of the poet's career, and a series of illustrations 
reproduces in photogravure form some of the many designs which artists 
have made to accompany poems always suggestive of the pictorial art. 

Boston, Autumn, 1900. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

To my Readers • xt 

Earlier Poems (1830 - 1836). 

Old Ironsides 1 

The Last Leaf 1 

The Cambridge Churchyard 2 

To an Insect ^ . . . <, . 3 

The Dilemma .- 4 

My Aunt 4 

Reflections of a Proud Pedestrian 5 

Daily Trials, by a Sensitive Man 6 

Evening, by a Tailor 6 

The Dorchester Giant 7 

To the Portrait of " A Lady " 8 

The Comet 9 

The Music-Grinders 9 

The Treadmill Song 10 

The September Gale „ 11 

The Height of the Ridiculous 12 

The Last Reader 12 

Poetry : A Metrical Essay , 18 

Additional Poems (1837-1848). 

The Pilgrim's Vision 27 

The Steamboat 29 

Lexington 29 

On Lending a Punch-Bowl 30 

A Song for the Centennial Celebration of Harvard College, 1836 32 

The Island Hunting-Song „ 33 

Departed Days 33 

The Only Daughter 33 

Song written for the Dinner given to Charles Dickens, by the Young Men of Boston, 

Feb. 1, 1842 34 

Lines recited at the Berkshire Festival 35 

Nux Postccenatica 36 

Verses for After-Dinner 38 

A Modest Request, complied with after the Dinner at President Everett's Inaugura- 
tion 39 

The Stethoscope Song 43 

Extracts from a Medical Poem 45 

The Partmg Word 48 

A Song of Other Days 47 



Vlll 



CONTENTS. 



Song for a Temperance Dinner to which Ladies were 
Library Association, Nov., 1842) 

A Sentiment 

A Rhymed Lesson . . 
An After-Dinner Poem . . 

Miscellaneous Poems (1830, etc.). 

The Meeting of the Dryads . 

The Mysterious Visitor . . 

The Toadstool . 

The Spectre Pig ... 

To a Caged Lion . . . 

The Star and the Water- Lily . 

Illustration of a Picture . , 

A Roman Aqueduct . . . 

Prom a Bachelor's Private Journal 

La Grisette ..... 

Our Yankee Girls . . , 

LTnconnue ..... 

Stanzas ..... 

Lines by a Clerk .... 

The Philosopher to his Love 

The Poet's Lot ... 

To a blank Sheet of Paper . 

To the Portrait of '' A Gentleman " 

The Ballad of the Oysterman . 

A Noontide Lyric .... 

The Hot Season . . , . 

A Portrait 

An Evening Thought . 

The Wasp and the Hornet . 

"Qui Vive 1 ' .... 
Bongs in Many Keys (1849-1861) . 

I. 1849-1856. 

Agnes. ..... 

The Ploughman 

Pictures from Occasional Poems (1850-1856). 

Spring 

The Study 

The Bells .... 

Non-Resistance . . 

The Moral Bully 

The Mind's Diet . . 

Our Limitations . , 

The Old Player 

The Island Ruin . 

The Banker's Dinner 

The Mysterious Illness . 

A. Mother's Secret . 

The Disappointed Statesman 

The Secret of the Stars ....... 

A Poem. Dedication of the Pittsfield Cemetery, September 9 
To Governor Swain ........ 

To an English Friend 



invited (New York Mercantile 



1850 



PAGE 
48 

48 
49 
64 

71 

72 

73 
74 
75 
76 
77 
77 
78 
78 
79 
79 
80 
80 
80 
81 
81 
82 
83 
84 
84 
85 
85 
86 
86 

87 



97 

99 
100 
102 
103 
103 
105 
105 
105 
108 
111 
115 
117 
120 
121 
123 
125 
126 



CONTENTS. IX 

PAGE 

Vignettes. 

After a Lecture on Wordsworth ...... r , 127 

After a Lecture on Moore „ . 128 

After a Lecture on Keats ,.... 129 

After a Lecture on Shelley 129 

At the close of a Course of Lectures 130 

The Hudson 131 

A Poem for the Meeting of the American Medical Association at New York, May 5, 

1853 . 132 

A Sentiment 133 

The New Eden 134 

Semi-centennial Celebration of the New England Society, New York, Dec. 22. 1S55 136 

Farewell to J. R. Lowell 137 

For the Meeting of the Burns Club 137 

Ode for Washington's Birthday 138 

Birthday of Daniel Webster ..*..., .139 

II. 1857-1861. 

The Voiceless 141 

The Two Streams 141 

The Promise 141 

Avis 142 

The Living Temple 143 

At a Birthday Festival 144 

A Birthday Tribute 144 

The Gray Chief 145 

The Last Look 145 

In Memory of Charles Wentworth Upham, Jr. 146 

Martha 146 

Meeting of the Alumni of Harvard College , 147 

The Parting Song . 14S 

For the Meeting of the National Sanitary Association 149 

For the Burns Centennial Celebration 150 

Boston Common. — Three Pictures 151 

The Old Man of the Sea 151 

International Ode 152 

Brother Jonathan's Lament for Sister Caroline 153 

Vive La France , 153 

Under the Washington Elm, Cambridge ...,-..... 154 

Freedom, our Queen 155 

Army Hymn 155 

Parting Hymn , 15(5 

The Flower of Liberty 15fi 

The Sweet Little Man , 157 

Union and Liberty 158 

Poems from the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table (1857-1858). 

The Chambered Nautilus 161 

Sun and Shadow 162 

The Two Armies . 162 - 

Musa .163 

A Parting Health 164 

What we all Think 165 

Spring has come ...... ,. . n 165 



X CONTENTS. 

FAGE 

Prologue .... 16C 

Latter-Day Warnings . 168 

Album Verses ... , 168 

A Good Time Going ! 169 

The Last Blossom 170 

Contentment 170 

^Estivation 171 

The Deacon's Masterpiece; or, The Wonderful "One-Hoss Shay" . . , .172 

Parson Turell's Legacy 174 

Ode for a Social Meeting, with slight Alterations by a Teetotaler . .176 

Poems from the Professor at the Breakfast Table (1858-1859). 

Under the Violets 177 

Hymn of Trust 177 

A Sun-day Hymn 178 

The Crooked Footpath 178 

Iris, her Book 179 

Robinson of Leyden 180 

St. Anthony the Reformer 181 

The Opening of the Piano 181 

Midsummer . 182 

DeSauty 182 

Poems from the Poet at the Breakfast Table (1871 - 1872). 

Homesick in Heaven 185 

Fantasia 387 

AuntTabitha 187 

Wind-Clouds and Star-Drifts 188 

Epilogue to the Breakfast-Table Series 205 

Poems of the Class of '29 (1851 - 1877). 

Bill and Joe 207 

A Song of 'Twenty-nine" 208 

Questions and Answers 209 

An Impromptu 209 

The Old Man Dreams 210 

Remember — Forget 210 

Our Indian Summer 211 

Mare Rubrum 212 

The Boys 213 

Lines 214 

A Voice of the Loyal North 215 

J.D.R 215 

Voyage of the Good Ship Union 216 

" Choose you this Day whom ye will Serve " 217 

F. W. C • ' • • 218 

The Last Charge 219 

Our Oldest Friend » 220 

Sherman 's in Savannah 221 

My Annual 221 

All Here 222 

Once More . 223 

The Old Cruiser . . 225 

Hymn for the Class-Meeting *... 227 

Even-Song „ 227 



CONTENTS. XI 

PAGE 

The Smiling Listener •• 229 

Our Sweet Singer • • 231 

******** ......«•• 232 

What I have come for 233 

Our Banker 233 

For Class Meeting • 235 

" Ad Amicos " « 236 

How not to Settle it ♦ 237 

Soxes of Many Seasons (1862 - 1874). 

Opening the Window 241 

Programme 241 

In the Quiet Days. 

An Old-Year Song . 243 

Dorothy Q., a Family Portrait 243 

The Orgau-Blower 245 

At the Pantomime 245 

After the Fire 246 

A Ballad of the Boston Tea-Party 247 

Nearing the Snow-Line 248 

In War Time. 

To Canaan 250 

" Thus saith the Lord, I offer Thee Three Things " 251 

Never or Now 251 

One Country 252 

God Save the Flag ! 252 

Hymn after the Emancipation Proclamation 253 

Hymn for the Fair at Chicago 253 

Songs of Welcome and Farewell. 

America to Russia 255 

Welcome to the Grand Duke Alexis 255 

At the Banquet to the Grand Duke Alexis 256 

At the Banquet to the Chinese Embassy 257 

At the Banquet to the Japanese Embassy 258 

Bryant's Seventieth Birthday 259 

At a Dinner to General Grant 261 

At a Dinner to Admiral Farragut 262 

A Toast to Wilkie Collins 263 

To H. W. Longfellow 263 

To Christian Gottfried Ehrenberg 264 

Memorial Verses. 

For the Services in Memory of Abraham Lincoln, June 1, 1865 ....<» 266 

For the Commemoration Services, Cambridge, July 21, 1S65 .... 266 

Edward Everett, January 30, 1865 268 

Shakespeare, Tercentennial Celebration, April 23, 1864 270 

In Memory of John and Robert Ware, May 25, 1S64 271 

Humboldt's Birthday, Centennial Celebration, September 14, 1869 .... 272 

Poem at the Dedication of the Halleck Monument, July 8, 1869 274 

Hymn for the Celebration at the Laying of the Corner-Stone of Harvard Memorial 

Hall, Cambridge, October 6, 1870 274 

Hymn for the Dedication of Memorial Hall, at Cambridge, June 23, 1874 . . . 275 

Hymn at the Funeral Services of Charles Sumner, April 29, 1874 .... 275 



XII CONTENTS. 

Rhymes of an Hour. pao« 

Address for the Opening of the Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York, December 3, 1S73 til 
Rip Van Winkle, M. D.; an After-Dinner Prescription taken by the Massachusetts 

Medical Society, at their Meeting held August 25, 1870 280 

Chanson without Music . 286 

For the Centennial Dinner of the Proprietors of Boston Pier, or the Long Wharf, 

April 16, 1S73 287 

A Poem served to Order 288 

The Fountain of Youth 2S9 

A Hymn of Peace, sung at the " Jubilee " June 15, 1869, to the Music of Keller's 

" American Hymn " 290 

Additional Poems (to 1877). 

At a Meeting of Friends, August 29, 1859 293 

A Farewell to Agassiz 294 

A Sea Dialogue 295 

At the "Atlantic Dinner," December 15, 1874 296 

"Lucy." For her Golden Wedding, October 18, 1875 298 

Hymn for the Inauguration of the Statue of Governor Andrew, at Hingham, October 

7, 1875 . ...... . .... 298 

A Memorial Tribute 299 

Joseph Warren, M. D 300 

Grandmother's Story of Bunker-Hill Battle 300 

Old Cambridge, July 3, 1875 304 

Welcome to the Nations, Philadelphia, July 4. 1876 . 306 

A Familiar Letter 306 

Unsatisfied . 308 

How the Old Horse won the Bet 309 

An Appeal for "the Old South 1 ' ........... 311 

The First Fan . ... 312 

To R B. H 314 

"The Ship of State" 315 

A Family Record ..........••>•. 315 

First Verses ••••••••»«• 320 

The Iron Gate 321 

Vestigia Quinque Retrorsum ...... 3'-' 3 

My Aviary &26 

On the Threshold 3L8 

To George Peabody ,....,.-••... 3l l J 

At the Papyrus Club 3^9 

For Whittier's Seventieth Birthday 330 

Two Sonnets : Harvard . .... 331 

The Last Survivor 332 

The Archbishop and Gil Bias . . . 334 

The Shadows . . . . = „ . . . » - ....... 335 

The Coming Era 336 

In Response - 337 

For the Moore Centennial Celebration . . « = • ... 338 

To James Freeman Clarke < 340 

Welcome to the Chicago Commercial Club ._.••*• ... 341 

American Academy Centennial Celebration ■• 341 

The School-Boy . . 343 

The Silent MeloCy .,.••••■• 359 

Before the Curfew and Other Poess. 

At my Fireside ....... o • • . o d52 

Before the Curfew . ,*•«». s . •. « s < <30^ 



CONTENTS. xili 

PAGE 

A Loving-Cup Song „ 353 

The Girdle of Friendship , 354 

The Lyre of Anacreon .'...*.. a ..... 354 

The Old Tune 355 

The Broken Circle 856 

The Angel-Thief .-.*.......... 356 

At the Saturday Club 357 

Benjamin Peirce 360 

Our Dead Singer. H. W. L. ......... . 361 

Two Poems to Harriet Beecher Stowe on her Seventieth Birthday. 

I. At che Summit .-.....»..„,. 362 

II. The World's Homage . 363 

A Welcome to Dr. Benjamin Apthorp Gould 363 

To Frederick Henry Hedge 364 

To James Russell Lowell 364 

To John Greenleaf Whit tier „ 356 

Prelude to a Volume printed in Raised Letters for the Blind . ..... 366 

Boston to Florence 367 

At the Unitarian Festival 367 

Poem for the Two Hundred and Fiftieth Anniversary of the Founding of Harvard Col- 
lege . 367 

Post-Prandial . . , . . 376 

The Flaneur 377 

Ave , ... 379 

King's Chapel. Read at the Two Hundredth Anniversary . . , „ 379 

Hymn for the same Occasion 3S1 

Hymn. — The Word of Promise 381 

Hymn Read at the Dedication of the Oliver Wendell Holmes Hospital at Hudson, 

Wisconsin, June 7, 18S7 3S2 

On the Death of President Garfield ...,,. 38° 

The Golden Flower ..-.*-.•« ■_ 3*3 

No Time like the Old Time . . . £84 

The Morning Visit . 384 

Hail, Columbia! ...... 3^6 

Poem for the Dedication of the Fountain at Stratford-on-Avon, presented by George 

W. Childs. of Philadelphia ... 387 

Gnr Home. — Our Country .•<,....«,.„.. 3^'J 

Poem at the Centennial Anniversary Dinner of the Massachusetts Medical Society o^J 

To the Poets who only Read and Listen ... ..,.<.» 394 
An Impromptu at the Walcker Dinner upon the completion of the Great Organ for 

Boston Music Hall 395 

Hymn written for the Great Central Fair in Philadelphia, 1864 .... 395 
Poem read at the Dinner given to the Author by the Medical Profession of the City of 

New York, April 12, ±883 . 395 

For the Dedication of the New City Library, Boston ....... 399 

To James Russell Lowell, at the Dinner given in his Honor at the Tavern Club, on 

his Seventieth Birthday, February 22, 18S9 ......... 400 

James Russell Lowell, 1819-1891 402 

For the Window in St. Margaret's . ........ 403 

But One Talent 403 

In Memory of John Greenleaf Whittier 404 

To the Teachers of America 405 

Youth. Read at the Thirty-first Anniversary of the Boston Young Men's Christian 

Union, May 31, 1882 ....'. 408 

Hymn written for the Twenty-fifth Anniversary of the Reorganization of the Boston 

Young Men's Christian Union, May 31, 1893 . iOo 



xiv CONTENTS. 

PACE 

Francis Parktnan . 406 

Harvard. Read at Commencement Dinner, July 1, 1880 . 408 

After the Curfew 408 

Poems from Over the Teacups (1889-1890). 

To the Eleven Ladies who presented me with a Silver Loving Cup . . . . 410 

The Peau de Chagrin of State Street 410 

Cacoethes Scribendi 411 

The Rose and the Fern 411 

I Like You and I Love You 411 

La Maison d'Or (Bar Harbor) 411 

Too Young for Love 412 

The Broomstick Train ; or, The Return of the Witches 412 

Tartarus 414 

At the Turn of the Road 415 

Invita Minerva 416 



NOTES 417 

INDEX OF FIRST LINES „ 419 

INDEX OF TITLES ,,,,,,.,,., * 423 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



Oliver Wendell Holmes Frontispiece 

From a photograph by Notman in 1879 

ARTIST PAGE 

The names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 

On the tomb Howard Pyle .... 2 

When the loosed current, as its folds uncoil, 

Slides in the channels of the mellowed soil . C. H Davis .... 16 

Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling, 

From their far hamlets the yeomanry come Frank T. Merrill . . 30 

Agnes Mary Hallock Foote . . 92 

Boston Common {From a photograph) 150 

She was a wonder, and nothing less ! . . . Howard Pyle .... 172 

Bill and Joe W. T. Smedley ... 208 

Dorothy Q Howard Pyle .... 244 

Out the cursed cargo leaps, 

And overboard it pitches ! Howard Pyle .... 248 

Though the rotten bars are failing on the 
rickety belfry railing, 

We are crowding up against them like the 

waves against a wall Howard Pyle .... 302 

Scant-maned, sharp-backed, and shaky- 
kneed 

The wreck of what was once a steed . . . Frank T. Merrill . . 310 

The sea-fowl as thaj flock together . . . Charles H. Woodbury . 326 

Dr. Holmes's morning walk 352 

A Snap-shot at " The Autocrat," November, 1893, 
as he was leaving his Boston home, 296 Beacon Street 

The Gambrel-Roofed House, Cambridge; Dr. 

Holmes' s Birthplace {From a photograph) 390 

On many a car you '11 see 
A broomstick plain as plain can be ; 
On every stick there 's a witch astride, — 
The string you see to her leg is tied . . . Frank T. Merrill . . 412 



TO MY READERS. 



Nay, blame me not ; I might have spared 
Your patience many a trivial verse, 

Yet these my earlier welcome shared, 
So, let the better shield the worse. 

And some might say, " Those ruder 
songs 
Had freshness which the new have 
lost; 
To spring the opening leaf belongs, 
The chestnut-burs await the frost." 

When those I wrote, my locks were 
brown, 

When these I write — ah, well-a-day ! 
The autumn thistle's silvery down 

Is not the purple bloom of May ! 

Go, little book, whose pages hold 
Those garnered years in loving trust ; 

How long before your blue and gold 
Shall fade and whiten in the dust ? 

sexton of the alcoved tomb, 

Where souls in leathern cerements lie, 
Tell me each living poet's doom ! 
How long before his book shall die ? 

It matters little, soon or late, 
A day, a month, a year, an age, — 

1 read oblivion in its date, 
And Finis, on its, title-page. 



Before we sighed, our griefs were told ; 

Before we smiled, our joys were sung; 
And all our passions shaped of old 

In accents lost to mortal tongue. 

In vain a fresher mould we seek, — 
Can all the varied phrases tell 

That Babel's wandering children speak 
How thrushes sing or lilacs smell ? 

Caged in the poet's lonely heart, 

Love wastes unheard its ten derest tone ,- 

The soul that sings must dwell apart, 
Its inward melodies unknown. 

Deal gently with us, ye who read ! 

Our largest hope is unfulfilled, — 
The promise still outruns the deed, — 

The tower, but not the spire, we build. 

Our whitest pearl we never find ; 

Our ripest fruit we never reach ; 
The flowering moments of the mind 

Drop half their petals in our speech. 

These are my blossoms ; if they wear 
One streak of morn or evening's glow, 

Accept them ; but to me more fair 
The buds of song that never blow. 

April 8, 1862. 



From the first gleam of morning to the gray 

Of peaceful evening, lo, a life unrolled ! 

In woven pictures all its changes told, 
Its lights, its shadows, every flitting ray, 
Till the long curtain, falling, dims the day, 

Steals from the dial's disk the sunlight's gold, 

And all the graven hours grow dark and cold 
Where late the glowing blaze of noontide lay. 
Ah ! the warm blood runs wild in youthful veins, — 

Let me no longer play with painted fire ; 

New songs for new-born days ! I would not tire 
The listening ears that wait for fresher strains 
In phrase new-moulded, new-forged rhythmic chains^. 

With plaintive measures from a worn-out 1/re. 

August 2, 18S1. 



EARLIER POEMS. 




EARLIER POEMS. 



1830-1836. 



OLD IRONSIDES. 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 

Long has it waved on high, 
And many an eye has danced to see 

That banner in the sky ; 
Beneath it rung the battle shout, 

And burst the cannon's roar ; — 
The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more ! 

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, 

Where knelt the vanquished foe, 
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, 

And waves were white below, 
No more shall feel the victor's tread, 

Or know the conquered knee ; — 
The harpies of the shore shall pluck 

The eagle of the sea ! 

better that her shattered hulk 

Should sink beneath the wave ; 
Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 

And there should be her g~ave ; 
Nail to the mast her holy flag, 

Set every threadbare sail, 
And give her to the god of storms, 

The lightning and the gale 1 



THE LAST LEAF. 

I saw him once before, 
As he passed by the door, 
And again 



The pavement stones resound 9 
As he totters o'er the ground 
With his cane. 

They say that in his prime, 
Ere the pruning-knife of Time 

Cut him down, 
Not a better man was found 
By the Crier on his round 

Through the town. 

But now he walks the streets, 
And he looks at all he meets 

Sad and wan, 
And he shakes his feeble head, 
That it seems as if he said, 

" They are gone." 

The mossy marbles rest 

On the lips that he has prest 

In their bloom, 
And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 

On the tomb. 

My grandmamma has said — 
Poor old lady, she is dead 

Long ago — 
That he had a Roman nose, 
And his cheek was like a rose 

In the snow. 

But now his nose is thin, 
And it rests upon his chin 
Like a staff, 



EAKLIER POEMS. 



And a crook is in his back, 
And a melancholy crack 
In his laugh. 

I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin 

At him here ; 
But the old three-cornered hat, 
And the breeches, and all that, 

Are so queer ! 

And if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 

In the spring, 
Let them smile, as I do now, 
At the old forsaken bough 

Where I cling. 



THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD. 

Our ancient church ! its lowly tower, 

Beneath the loftier spire, 
Is shadowed when the sunset hour 

Clothes the tall shaft in fire ; 
It siuks beyond the distant eye, 

Long ere the glittering vane, 
High wheeling in the western sky, 

Has faded o'er the plain. 

Like Sentinel and Nun, they keep 

Their vigil on the green ; 
One seems to guard, and one to weep, 

The dead that lie between ; 
And both roll out, so full and near, 

Their music's mingling waves, 
They shake the grass, whose pennoned 
spear 

Leans on the narrow graves. 

The stranger parts the flaunting weeds, 
"Whose seeds the winds have strown 

So thick beneath the line he reads, 
They shade the sculptured stone ; 

The child unveils his clustered brow, 
And ponders for a while 



The graven willow's pendent bough, 
Or rudest cherub's smile. 

But what to them the dirge, the knell ? 

These were the mourner's share ; 
The sullen clang, whose heavy swell 

Throbbed through the beating air ; 
The rattling cord, — the rolling stone, — 

The shelving sand that slid, 
And, far beneath, with hollow tone, 

Rung on the coffin's lid. 

The slumberer's mound grows fresh and 
green, 

Then slowly disappears ; 
The mosses creep, the gray stones lean, 

Earth hides his date and years ; 
But, long before the once-loved name 

Is sunk or worn away, 
No lip the silent dust may claim, 

That pressed the breathing clay. 

Go where the ancient pathway guides, 

See where our sires laid down 
Their smiling babes, their cherished 
brides, 

The patriarchs of the town ; 
Hast thou a tear for buried love ? 

A sigh for transient power ? 
All that a century left above, 

Go, read it in an hour ! 

The Indian's shaft, the Briton's ball, 

The sabre's thirsting edge, 
The hot shell, shattering in its fall, 

The bayonet's rending wedge, — 
Here scattered death ; yet, seek the spot, 

No trace thine eye can see, 
No altar, — and they need it not 

Who leave their children free ! 

Look where the turbid rain-drops stand 
In many a chiselled square ; 

The knightly crest, the shield, the brand 
Of honored names were there ; — 



The flames he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 
On the tomb 



TO AN INSECT. 



Alas ! for every tear is dried 

Those blazoned tablets knew, 

Save when the icy marble's side 
Drips with the evening dew. 

Or gaze upon yon pillared stone, 

The empty urn of pride ; 
There stand the Goblet and the Sun, — 

What need of more beside ? 
Where lives the memory of the dead, 

Who made their tomb a toy ? 
Whose ashes press that nameless bed ? 

Go, ask the village boy ! 

Lean o'er the slender western wall, 

Ye ever-roaming girls ; 
The breath that bids the blossom fall 

May lift your floating curls, 
To sweep the simple lines that tell 

An exile's date and doom ; 
And sigh, for where his daughters dwell, 

They wreathe the stranger's tomb. 

And one amid these shades was born, 

Beneath this turf who lies, 
Once beaming as the summer's morn, 

That closed her gentle eyes ; 
If sinless angels love as we, 

Who stood thy grave beside, 
Three seraph welcomes waited thee, 

The daughter, sister, bride ! 

I wandered to thy buried mound 

When earth was hid below 
The level of the glaring ground, 

Choked to its gates with snow, 
And when with summer's flowery waves 

The lake of verdure rolled, 
As if a Sultan's white-robed slaves 

Had scattered pearls and gold. 

Nay, the soft pinions of the air, 
That lift this trembling tone, 

Its breath of love may almost bear, 
To kiss thy funeral stone ; 



And, now thy smiles have passed away, 
For all the joy they gave, 

May sweetest dews and warmest ray 
Lie on thine early grave ! 

When damps beneath, and storms above, 

Have bowed these fragile towers, 
Still o'er the graves yon locust-grove 

Shall swing its Orient flowers ; 
And I would ask no mouldering bust. 

If e'er this humble line, 
Which breathed a sigh o'er other's dust, 

Might call a tear on mine. 



TO AN INSECT. 

I love to hear thine earnest voice, 

Wherever thou art hid, 
Thou testy little dogmatist, 

Thou pretty Katydid ! 
Thou mindest me of gentlefolks, — 

Old gentlefolks are they, — 
Thou say'st an undisputed thing 

In such a solemn way. 

Thou art a female, Katydid ! 

I know it by the trill 
That quivers through thy piercing notes, 

So petulant and shrill ; 
I think there is a knot of you 

Beneath the hollow tree, — 
A knot of spinster Katydids, — 

Do Katydids drink tea ? 

tell me where did Katy live, 

And what did Katy do ? 
And was she very fair and young, 

And yet so wicked, too ? 
Did Katy love a naughty man, 

Or kiss more cheeks than one ? 

1 warrant Katy did no more 

Than many a Kate has done. 

Dear me ! I '11 tell you all about 
My fuss with little Jane, 



EARLIER POEMS. 



And Ann, with whom I used to walk 

So often down the lane, 
And all that tore their locks of black, 

Or wet their eyes of blue, — 
Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid, 

What did poor Katy do ? 

Ah no ! the living oak shall crash, 

That stood for ages still, 
The rock shall rend its mossy base 

And thunder down the hill, 
Before the little Katydid 

Shall add one word, to tell 
The mystic story of the maid 

"Whose name she knows so well. 

Peace to the ever-murmuring race ! 

And when the latest one 
Shall fold in death her feeble wings 

Beneath the autumn sun, 
Then shall she raise her fainting voice, 

And lift her drooping lid, 
And then the child of future years 

Shall hear what Katy did. 



THE DILEMMA. 

Now, by the blessed Paphian queen, 
"Who heaves the breast of sweet sixteen 
By every name I cut on bark 
Before my morning star grew dark 
By Hymen's torch, by Cupid's dart, 
By all that thrills the beating heart ; 
The bright black eye, the melting blue, — 
I cannot choose between the two. 

I had a vision in my dreams ; — 
I saw a row of twenty beams ; 
From every beam a rope was hung, 
In every rope a lover swung ; 
I asked the hue of every eye, 
That bade each luckless lover die ; 
Ten shadowy lips said, heavenly blue, 
And ten accused the darker hue. 



I asked a matron which she deemed 
With fairest light of beauty beamed ; 
She answered, some thought both were 

fair, — 
Give her blue eyes and golden hair. 
I might have liked her judgment well, 
But, as she spoke, she rung the bell, 
And all her girls, nor small nor few, 
Came marchingin, — their eyes were blue. 

I asked a maiden ; back she flung 
The locks that round her forehead hung, 
And turned her eye, a glorious one, 
Bright as a diamond in the sun, 
On me, until beneath its rays 
I felt as if my hair would blaze ; 
She liked all eyes but eyes of green ; 
She looked at me ; what could she mean ? 

Ah ! many lids Love lurks between, 
Nor heeds the coloring of his screen ; 
And when his random arrows fly, 
The victim falls, but knows not why. 
Gaze not upon his shield of jet, 
The shaft upon the string is set ; 
Look not beneath his azure veil, 
Though every limb were cased in mail. 

Well, both might make a martyr break 
The chain that bound him to the stake; 
And both, with but a single ray, 
Can melt our very hearts away ; 
And both, when balanced, hardly seem 
To stir the scales, or rock the beam ; 
But that is dearest, all the while, 
That wears for us the sweetest smile. 



MY AUNT. 

My aunt ! my dear unmarried aunt ! 

Long years have o'er her flown ; 
Yet still she strains the aching clasp 

That binds her virgin zone ; 
I know it hurts her, — though she looks 

As cheerful as she can ; 



REFLECTIONS OF A PROUD PEDESTRIAN. 



Her waist is ampler than her life, 
For life is but a span. 

My aunt ! my poor deluded aunt ! 

Her hair is almost gray ; 
Why will she train that winter curl 

In such a spring-like way ? 
How can she lay her glasses down, 

And say she reads as well, 
When, through a double convex lens, 

She just makes out to spell ? 

Her father — grandpapa ! forgive 

This erring lip its smiles — 
Vowed she should make the finest girl 

Within a hundred miles ; 
He sent her to a stylish school ; 

'T was in her thirteenth June ; 
Aud with her, as the rules required, 

"Two towels and a spoon." 

They braced my aunt against a board, 

To make her straight and tall ; 
They laced her up, they starved her down, 

To make her light and small ; 
They pinched her feet, they singed her 
hair, 

They screwed it up with pins ; — 
never mortal suffered more 

In penance for her sins. 

So, when my precious aunt was done, 

My grandsire brought her back ; 
(By daylight, lest some rabid youth 

Might follow on the track ;) 
"Ah ! " said my grandsire, as he shook 

Some powder in his pan, 
4 'What could this lovely creature do 

Against a desperate man ! " 

Alas ! nor chariot, nor barouche, 

Nor bandit cavalcade, 
Tore from the trembling father's arms 

His all-accomplished maid. 



For her how happy had it been ! 

And Heaven had spared to me 
To see one sad, ungathered rose 

On my ancestral tree. 



REFLECTIONS OF A PROUD PEDES 
TR1AN. 

I saw the curl of his waving lash, 
And the glance of his knowing eye, 

And I knew that he thought he was 
cutting a dash, 
As Ins steed went thundering by. 

And he may ride in the rattling gig, 
Or flourish the Stanhope gay, 

And dream that he looks exceeding big 
To the people that walk in the way ; 

But he shall think, when the night is 
still, 
On the stable-boy's gathering num- 
bers, 
And the ghost of many a veteran bill 
Shall hover around his slumbers ; 

The ghastly dun shall worry his sleep, 
And constables cluster around him, 
And he shall creep from the wood-hole 
deep 
Where their spectre eyes have found 
him ! 

Ay ! gather your reins, and crack your 
thong, 
And bid your steed go faster ; 
He does not know, as he scrambles 
along, 
That he has a fool for his master ; 

And hurry away on your lonely ride, 
Nor deign from the mire to save me ; 

I will paddle it stoutly at your side 
With the tandem that nature gay* 
me! 



EAELIER POEMS. 



DAILY TRIALS. 

BY A SENSITIVE MAN. 

0, there are times 
When all this fret and tumnlt that we 

hear 
Do seem more stale than to the sexton's 
ear 
His own dull chimes. 

Ding dong ! ding dong S 
The world is in a simmer like a sea 
Over a pent volcano, — woe is me 

All the day long ! 

From crib to shroud ! 
Nurse o'er our cradles screameth lullaby, 
And friends in boots tramp round us as 
we die, 

Snuffling aloud. 

At morning's call 
The small-voiced pug-dog welcomes in 

the sun, 
And flea-bit mongrels, wakening ©ne by 
one, 
Give answer all. 

"When evening dim 
Draws round us, then the Jonely cater- 
waul, 
Tart solo, sour duet, and general squall, — 

These are our hymn. 

Women, with tongues 
Like polar needles, ever on the jar ; 
Hen, plugless word-spouts, whose deep 
fountains are 

Within their lungs. 

Children, with drums 
Strapped round them by the fond pater- 
nal ass ; 
Peripatetics with a blade of grass 

Between their thumbs. 



Vagrants, whose arts 
Have caged some devil in their mad ma- 
chine, 
Which grinding, squeaks, with husky 
groans between, 
Come out by starts. 

Cockneys that kill 
Thin horses of a Sunday, — men, with 

clams, 
Hoarse as young bisons roaring for their 
dams 
From hill to hill. 

Soldiers, with guns, 
Making a nuisance of the blessed air, 
Child-crying bellmen, children in de- 
spair, 

Screeching for buns. 

Storms, thunders, waves ! 
Howl, crash, and bellow till ye get your 

fill; 
Ye sometimes rest ; men never can be still 

But in their graves. 



EVENING. 
BY A TAILOR. 

Day hath put on his jacket, and around 
His burning bosom buttoned it with stars. 
Here will I lay me on the velvet grass, 
That is like padding to earth's meagre 

ribs, 
And hold communion with the things 

about me. 
Ah me ! how lovely is the golden braid 
That binds the skirt of night's descend- 
ing robe ! 
The thin leaves, quivering on their silken 

threads, 
Do make a music like to rustling satin, 
As the light breezes smooth their downy, 
nap. 



THE DORCHESTER GIANT. 



Ha ! what is this that rises to my touch, 
So like a cushion ? Can it be a cabbage ? 
It is, it is that deeply injured flower, 
"Which boys do flout us with ; — but yet 

I love thee, 
Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green sur- 

tout. 
Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as 

bright 
As these, thy puny brethren ; and thy 

breath 
Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air ; 
But now thou seemest like a bankrupt 

beau, 
Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences, 
And growing portly in his sober garments. 

Is that a swan that rides upon the 
water ? 

no, it is that other gentle bird, 
Which is the patron of our noble calling. 

1 well remember, in my early years, 
When these young hands first closed 

upon a goose ; 
I have a scar upon my thimble finger, 
Which chronicles the hour of young am- 
bition. 
My father was a tailor, and his father, 
And my sire's grandsire, all of them 

were tailors ; 
They had an ancient goose, — it was an 

heirloom 
From some remoter tailor of our race. 
It happened I did see it on a time 
When none was near, and I did deal 

with it, 
And it did burn me, — 0, most fearfully ! 

It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs, 
And leap elastic from the level counter, 
Leaving the petty grievances of earth, 
The breaking thread, the din of clashing 

shears, 
And all the needles that do wound the 

spirit, 



For such a pensive hour of soothing si- 
lence. 

Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose un- 
dress, 

Lays bare her shady bosom ; — I can feel 

With all around me ; — I can hail the 
flowers 

That sprig earth's mantle, — and yon 
quiet bird, 

That rides the stream, is to me as a 
brother. 

The vulgar know not all the hidden 
pockets, 

Where Nature stows away her loveliness. 

But this unnatural posture of the legs 

Cramps my extended calves, and I must go 

Where I can coil them in their wonted 
fashion. 

THE DORCHESTER GIANT. - 

There was a giant in time of old, 

A mighty one was he ; 
He had a wife, but she was a scold, 
So he kept her shut in his mammoth fold; 

And he had children three. 

It happened to be an election day, 

And the giants were choosing a king ; 
The people were not democrats then, 
They did not talk of the rights of men, 
And all that sort of thing. 

Then the giant took his children three, 
And fastened them in the pen ; 

The children roared ; quoth the giant, 
"Be still !" 

And Dorchester Heights and Milton Hill 
Rolled back the sound again. 

Then he brought them a pudding stuffed 
with plums, 
As big as the State-House dome ; 
Quoth he, " There 's something for you 
to eat ; 



8 



EARLIER POEMS. 



So stop your mouths with your 'lection 
treat, 
And wait till your dad comes home. ,r 

So the giant pulled him a chestnut stout, 

And whittled the boughs away ; 
The boys and their mother set up a shout, 
Said he, " You 're in, and you can't get 
out, 
Bellow as loud as you may." 

Off. he went, and he growled a tune 

As he strode the fields along ; 
'T is said a buffalo fainted away, 
And fell as cold as a lump of clay, 
When he heard the giant's song. 

But whether the story 's true or not, 

It is n't for me to show ; 
There 's many a thing that 's twice as 

queer 
In somebody's lectures that we hear, 

And those are true, you know. 

* * * 
What are those lone ones doing now, 

The wife and the children sad ? 
0, they are in a terrible rout, 
Screaming, and throwing their pudding 
about, 

Acting as they were mad. 

They flung it over to Roxbury hills, 

They flung it over the plain, 
And all over Milton and Dorchester too 
Great lumps of pudding the giants threw; 
They tumbled as thick as rain. 

* * * 

Giant and mammoth have passed away, 

For ages have floated by ; 
The suet is hard as a marrow-bone, 
And every plum is turned to a stone, 

But there the puddings lie. 

And if, some pleasant afternoon, 
You '11 a*k me out to ride, 



The whole of the story I will tell, 
And you shall see where the puddings fell, 
And pay for the punch beside. 



TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A LADY." 

IN THE ATHESLEUM GALLERY. 

Well, Miss, I wonder where you live, 

I wonder what 's your name, 
I wonder how you came to be 

In such a stylish frame ; 
Perhaps you were a favorite child, 

Perhaps an only one ; 
Perhaps your friends were not aware 

You had your portrait done ! 

Yet you must be a harmless soul ; 

I cannot think that Sin 
Would care to throw his loaded dice, 

With such a stake to win ; 
I cannot think you would provoke 

The poet's wicked pen, 
Or make young women bite their lips, 

Or ruin fine young men. 

Pray, did you ever hear, my love, 

Of boys that go about, 
Who, for a very trifling sum, 

Will snip one's picture out? 
I 'm not averse to red and white, 

But all things have their place, 
I think a profile cut in black 

Would suit your style of face ! 

I love sweet features ; I will own 

That I should like myself 
To see my portrait on a wall, 

Or bust upon a shelf ; 
But nature sometimes makes one up 

Of such sad odds and ends, 
It really might be quite as well 

Hushed up among one's friends 1 



THE COMET. — THE MUSIC-GRINDERS. 



THE COMET. 

The Comet ! He is on his way, 

And singing as lie flies ; 
•The whizzing planets shrink before 

The spectre of the skies ; 
Ah ! well may regal orbs burn blue, 

And satellites turn pale, 
Ten million cubic miles of head, 

Ten billion leagues of tail ! 

On, on by whistling spheres of light 

He flashes and he flames ; 
He turns not to the left nor right, 

He asks them not their names ; 
One spurn from his demoniac heel, — 

Away, away they fly, 
Where darkness might be bottled up 

And sold for "Tynan dye." 

And what would happen to the land, 

And how would look the sea, 
If in the bearded devil's path 

Our earth should chance to be ? 
Full hot and high the sea would boil, 

Full red the forests gleam ; 
Methought I saw and heard it all 

In a dyspeptic dream ! 

I saw a tutor take his tube 

The Comet's course to spy ; 
I heard a scream, — the gathered rays 

Had stewed the tutor's eye ; 
I saw a fort, — the soldiers all 

Were armed with goggles green ; 
Pop cracked the guns ! whiz flew the balls ! 

Bang went the magazine ! 

I saw a poet dip a scroll 

Each moment in a tub, 
I read upon the warping back, 

" The Dream of Beelzebub" ; 
He could not see his verses burn, 

Although his brain was fried, 
And ever and anon he bent 

To wet them as they dried. 



I saw the scalding pitch roll down 

The crackling, sweating pines, 
And streams of smoke, like water-spouts, 

Burst through the rumbling mines ; 
I asked the firemen why they made 

Such noise about the town ; 
They answered not, — but all the while 

The brakes went up and down. 

I saw a roasting pullet sit 

Upon a baking egg ; 
I saw a cripple scorch his hand 

Extinguishing his leg ; 
I saw nine geese upon the wing 

Towards the frozen pole, 
And every mother's gosling fell 

Crisped to a crackling coal 

I saw the ox that browsed the grass 

Writhe in the blistering rays, 
The herbage in his shrinking jaws 

Was all a fiery blaze ; 
I saw huge fishes, ooiled to rags, 

Bob through the bubbling brine ; 
And thoughts of supper crossed my soul; 

I had been rash at mine. 



Strange sights ! strange sounds ! fear- 
ful dream ! 

Its memory haunts me still, 
The steaming sea, the crimson glare, 

That wreathed each wooded hill ; 
Stranger ! if through thy reeling brain 

Such midnight visions sweep, 
Spare, spare, 0, spare thine evening meal, 

And sweet shall be thy sleep ! 

THE MUSIC-GRINDERS. 

There are three ways in which men takti 
One's money from his purse, 

And very hard it is to tell 

Which of the three is worse ; 

But all of them are bad enough 
To make a body curse. 



10 



EARLIER POEMS. 



You 're riding out some pleasant day, 
And counting up your gains ; 

A fellow jumps from out a bush, 
And takes your horse's reins, 

Another hints some words about 
A bullet in your brains. 

It 's hard to meet such pressing friends 

In such a lonely spot ; 
It 's very hard to lose your cash, 

But harder to be shot ; 
And so you take your wallet out, 

Though you would rather not. 

Perhaps you 're going out to dine, — 
Some odious creature begs 

You '11 hear about the cannon-ball 
That carried off his pegs, 

And says it is a dreadful thing 
For men to lose their legs. 

He tells you of his starving wife, 

His children to be fed, 
Poor little, lovely innocents, 

All clamorous for bread, — 
And so you kindly help to put 

A bachelor to bed. 

You 're sitting on your window-seat, 
Beneath a cloudless moon ; 

You hear a sound, that seems to wear 
The semblance of a tune, 

As if a broken fife should strive 
To drown a cracked bassoon. 

And nearer, nearer still, the tide 

Of music seems to come, 
There 's something like a human voice, 

And something like a drum ; 
You sit in speechless agony, 

Until your ear is numb. 

Poor "home, sweet home" should seem 
to be 
A very dismal place ; 



Your " auld acquaintance " all at once 

Is altered in the face ; 
Their discords sting through Burns and 
Moore, 

Like hedgehogs dressed in lace. 

You think they are crusaders, sent 
From some infernal clime, 

To pluck the eyes of Sentiment, 
And dock the tail of Rhyme, 

To crack the voice of Melody, 
And break the legs of Time. 

But hark ! the air again is still, 

The music all is ground, 
And silence, like a poultice, comes 

To heal the blows of sound ; 
It cannot be, — it is, — it is, — 

A hat is going round ! 

No ! Pay the dentist when he leaves 

A fracture in your jaw, 
And pay the owner of the bear 

That stunned you with his paw, 
And buy the lobster that has had 

Your knuckles in his claw ; 

But if you are a portly man, 
Put on your fiercest frown, 

And talk about a constable 

To turn them out of town ; 

Then close your sentence with an oath, 
And shut the window down ! 

And if you are a slender man, 

Not big enough for that, 
Or, if you cannot make a speech, 

Because you are a flat, 
Go very quietly and drop 

A button in the hat ! 

THE TREADMILL SONG. 

The stars are rolling in the sky, 
The earth rolls on below, 

And we can feel the rattling wheel 
Revolving as we go. 



THE SEPTEMBER GALE. 



11 



Then tread away, my gallant boys, 

And make the axle fly ; 
Why should not wheels go round about, 

Like planets in the sky ? 

Wake up, wake up, my duck-legged man, 

And stir your solid pegs ! 
Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend, 

And shake your spider legs ; 
What though you 're awkward at the 
trade, 

There 's time enough to learn, — 
So lean upon the rail, my lad, 

And take another turn. 

They 've built us up a noble wall, 

To keep the vulgar out ; 
We 've nothing in the world to do 

But just to walk about ; 
So faster, now, you middle men, 

And try to beat the ends, — 
It 's pleasant work to ramble round 

Among one's honest friends. 

Here, tread upon the long man's toes, 

He sha' n't be lazy here, — 
And punch the little fellow's ribs, 

And tweak that lubber's ear, — 
He 's lost them both, — don't pull his 
hair, 

Because he wears a scratch, 
But poke him in the further eye, 

That is n't in the patch. 

Hark ! fellows, there 's the supper-bell, 

And so our work is done ; 
It 's pretty sport, — suppose we take 

A round or two for fun ! 
If ever they should turn me out, 

When I have better grown, 
Now hang me, but I mean to have 

A treadmill of my own ! 

THE SEPTEMBER GALE. 

I 'm not a chicken ; I have seen 
« Full many a chill September, 



And though I was a youngster then, 
That gale I well remember ; 

The day before, my kite-string snapped, 
And I, my kite pursuing, 

The wind whisked off my palm-leaf 
hat ; — 
For me two storms were brewing ! 

It came as quarrels sometimes do, 

When married folks get clashing ; 
There was a heavy sigh or two, 

Before the fire was flashing, — 
A little stir among the clouds, 

Before they rent asunder, — 
A little rocking of the trees, 

And then came on the thunder. 

Lord ! how the ponds and rivers boiled ! 

They seemed like bursting craters ! 
And oaks lay scattered on the ground 

As if they were p'taters ; 
And all above was in a howl, 

And all below a clatter, — 
The earth was like a frying-pan, 

Or some such hissing matter. 

It chanced to be our washing-day, 

And all our things were drying ; 
The storm came roaring through the 
lines, 

And set them all a flying ; 
I saw the shirts and petticoats 

Go riding off like witches ; 
I lost, ah ! bitterly I wept, — 

I lost my Sunday breeches ! 

I saw them straddling through the 
air, 

Alas ! too late to win them ; 
I*saw them chase the clouds, as if 

The devil had been in them ; 
They were my darlings and my pride. 

My boyhood's only riches, — 
"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,— 

" My breeches ! my breeches ! " 



12 



EARLIER POEMS. 



That night I saw them in my dreams, 

How changed from what I knew them ! 
The dews had steeped their faded threads, 

The winds had whistled through them ! 
I saw the wide and ghastly rents 

Where demon claws had torn them ; 
A hole was in their amplest part, 

As if an imp had worn them. 

I have had many happy years, 

And tailors kind and clever, 
But those young pantaloons have gone 

Forever and forever ! 
And not till fate has cut the last 

Of all my earthly stitches, 
This aching heart shall cease to mourn 

My loved, my long-lost breeches ! 



THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS. 

I wrote some lines once on a time 
In wondrous merry mood, 

And thought, as usual, men would say 
They were exceeding good. 

They were so queer, so very queer, 

I laughed as I would die ; 
Albeit, in the general way, 

A sober man am I. 

I called my servant, and he came ; 

How kind it was of him 
To mind a slender man like me, 

He of the mighty limb ! 

" These to the printer," I exclaimed, 

And, in my humorous way, 
I added, (as a trifling jest,) 

II There '11 be the devil to pay." 

He took the paper, and I watched, 
And saw him peep within ; 

At the first line he read, his face 
Was all upon the grin. 



He read the next ; the grin grew broad, 

And shot from ear to ear ; 
He read the third ; a chuckling noise 

I now began to hear. 

The fourth ; he broke into a roar ; 

The fifth ; his waistband split ; 
The sixth ; he burst five buttons off, 

And tumbled in a fit. 

Tea days and nights, with sleepless eye^ <. 

I watched that wretched man, 
And since, I never dare to write 

As funny as I can. 

THE LAST READER. 

I sometimes sit beneath a tree* 

And read my own sweet songs ; 

Though naught they may to others be, 
Each humble line prolongs 

A tone that might have passed away, 

But for that scarce remembered lay. 

I keep them like a lock or leaf 

That some dear girl has given ; 

Frail record of an hour, as brief 
As sunset clouds in heaven, 

But spreading purple twilight still 

High over memory's shadowed hill. 

They lie upon my pathway bleak, 

Those flowers that once ran wild, 

As on a father's careworn cheek 
The ringlets of his child ; 

The golden mingling with the gray, 

And stealing half its snows away. 

What care I though the dust is spread 
Around these yellow leaves, 

Or o'er them his sarcastic thread 
Oblivion's insect weaves, 

Though weeds are tangled on the stream, 

It still reflects my morning's beana. 

And therefore love I such as smile 
On these neglected songs 



TOETRY: A METRICAL ESSAY. 



13 



Nor deem that flattery's needless wile 

My opening bosom wrongs ; 
For who would trample, at my side, 
A few pale buds, my garden's pride ? 

It may be that my scanty ore 

Long years have washed away, 

And where were golden sands before, 
Is naught but common day ; 

Still something sparkles in the sun 

For memory to look back upon. 

And when my name no more is heard, 
My lyre no more is known, 

Still let me, like a winter's bird, 
In silence and alone, 

Fold over them the weary wing 

Once flashing through the dews of spring. 

Yes, let my fancy fondly wrap 

My youth in its decline, 
And riot in the rosy lap 

Of thoughts that once were mine, 
And give the worm my little store 
When the last reader reads no more ! 

POETRY: 

A METRICAL ESSAY, READ BEFORE TIIE 
* B K SOCIETY, HABYAKD UNIVER- 
SITY, AUGUST, 1836. 

TO CHARLES WENTWORTH UPHAM, THE FOLLOW- 
ING METRICAL ESSAY IS AFFECTION- 
ATELY INSCRIBED. 

Scenes of my youth ! awake its slum- 
bering fire ! 

Ye winds of Memory, sweep the silent 
lyre ! 

Ray of the past, if yet thou canst appear, 

Break through the clouds of Fancy's 
waning year ; 

Chase from her breast the thin autumnal 
snow, 

If leaf or blossom still is fresh below ! 

Long have I wandered ; the returning 
tide 



Brought back an exile to his cradle's side ; 

And as my bark her time-worn flag un- 
rolled, 

To greet the land-breeze with its faded 
fold, 

So, in remembrance of my boyhood's 
time, 

I lift these ensigns of neglected rhyme ; 

more than blest, that, all my wander- 
ings through, 

My anchor falls where first my pennons 
flew ! 



The morning light, which rains its 
quivering beams 

Wide o'er the plains, the summits, and 
the streams, 

In one broad blaze expands its golden 
glow 

On all that answers to its glance below ; 

Yet, changed on earth, each far re- 
flected ray 

Braids with fresh hues the shining brow 
of day ; 

Now, clothed in blushes by the painted 
flowers, 

Tracks on their cheeks the rosy-fingered 
hours ; 

Now, lost in shades, whose dark en- 
tangled leaves 

Drip at the noontide from their pendent 
eaves, 

Fades into gloom, or gleams in light again 

From every dew-drop on the jewelled 
plain. 

We, like the leaf, the summit, or the 

wave, 
Reflect the light our common nature gave, 
But every sunbeam, falling from her 

throne, 
Wears on our hearts some coloring of our 

own ; 
Chilled in the slave, and burning in the 

free, 



14 



EARLIER POEMS. 



Like the sealed cavern by the sparkling 

sea ; 
Lost, like the lightning in the sullen 

clod, 
Or shedding radiance, like the smiles of 

God, 
Pure, pale ia Virtue, as the star above, 
Or quivering roseate on the leaves of 

Love ; 
Glaring like noontide, where it glows 

upon 
Ambition's sands, — the desert in the 

sun ; 
Or soft suffusing o'er the varied scene 
Life's common coloring, — intellectual 

green. 

Thus Heaven, repeating its material 
plan, 
Arched over all the rainbow mind of man; 
But he who, blind to universal laws, 
Sees but effects, unconscious of their 

cause, — 
Believes each image in itself is bright, 
Not robed in drapery of reflected light, — 
Is like the rustic who, amidst his toil, 
Has found some crystal in his meagre 

soil, 
And, lost in rapture, thinks for him alone 
Earth worked her wonders on the spark- 
ling stone, 
Nor dreams that Nature, with as nice a 

line, 
Carved countless angles through the 
boundless mine. 

Thus err the many, who, entranced 

to find 
Unwonted lustre in some clearer mind, 
Believe that Genius sets the laws at 

naught 
"Which chain the pinions of our wildest 

thought ; 
Untaught to measure, with the eye of 

art, 



The wandering fancy or the wayward 

heart ; 
Who match the little only with the less, 
And gaze in rapture at its slight excess, 
Proud of a pebble, as the brightest gem 
Whose light might crown an emperor's 

diadem. 

And, most of all, the pure ethereal 

fire, 
Which seems to radiate from the poet's 

lyre, 
Is to the world a mystery and a charm, 
An iEgis wielded on a mortal's arm, 
While Reason turns her dazzled eye 

away, 
And bows her sceptre to her subject's 

sway ; 
And thus the poet, clothed with godlike 

state, 
Usurped his Maker's title — to create ; 
He, whose thoughts differing not in 

shape, but dress, 
What others feel, more fitly can express, 
Sits like the maniac on his fancied 

throne, 
Peeps through the bars, and calls the 

world his own. 

There breathes no being but has some 

pretence 
To that fine instinct called poetic sense : 
The rudest savage roaming through the 

wild; 
The simplest rustic bending o'er his 

child ; 
The infant listening to the warbling bird ; 
The mother smiling at its half-formed 

word; 
The boy uncaged, who tracks the fields 

at large ; 
The girl, turned matron to her babe-like 

charge ; 
The freeman, casting with unpurchased 

hand 



POETRY: A METRICAL ESSAY. 



16 



The vote that shakes the turrets of the 

land ; 
The slave, who, slumbering on his rusted 

chain, 
Dreams of the palm-trees on his burning 

plain ; 
The hot-cheeked reveller, tossing down 

the wine, 
To join the chorus pealing "Auld lang 

syne " ; 
The gentle maid, whose azure eye grows 

dim, 
While Heaven is listening to her evening 

hymn ; 
The jewelled beauty, when her steps 

draw near 
The circling dance and dazzling chande- 
lier ; 
E'en trembling age, when Spring's re- 
newing air 
Waves the thin ringlets of his silvered 

hair ; — 
All, all are glowing with the inward 

flame, 
Whose wider halo wreathes the poet's 

name, 
While, unembalmed, the silent dreamer 

dies, 
His memory passing with his smiles and 

sighs ! 

If glorious visions, born for all man- 
kind, 

The bright auroras of our twilight mind ; 

If fancies, varying as the shapes that 
lie 

Stained on the windows of the sunset 
sky; 

If hopes, that beckon with delusive 
gleams, 

Till the eye dances in the void of dreams ; 

If passions, following with the winds 
that urge 

Earth's wildest wanderer to her farthest 
verge ; — 



If these on all some transient a*.-ors 

bestow 
Of rapture tingling with its hectic glow, 
Then all are poets ; and, if earth had 

rolled 
Her myriad centuries, and her doom 

were told, 
Each moaning billow of her shoreless 

wave 
Would wail its requiem o'er a poet's 

grave ! 

If to embody in a breathing word 
Tones that the spirit trembled when it 

heard ; 
To fix the image all unveiled and warm, 
And carve in language its ethereal form, 
So pure, so perfect, that the lines express 
Xo meagre shrinking, no unlaced excess ; 
To feel that art, in living truth, has 

taught 
Ourselves, reflected in the sculptured 

thought ; — 
If this alone bestow the right to claim 
The deathless garland ami the sacred 

name ; 
Then none are poets, save the saints on 

high, 
Whose harps can murmur all that words 

deny ! 

But though to none is granted to 

reveal, 
In perfect semblance, all that each may 

feel, 
As withered flowers recall forgotten love, 
So, warmed to life, our faded passions 

move 
In every line, where kindling fancy 

throws 
The gleam of pleasures, or the shade of 

woes. 

When, schooled by time, the stately 
queen of art 



16 



EARLIER POEMS. 



Had smoothed the pathways leading to 

the heart, 
Assumed her measured tread, her solemn 

tone, 
And round her courts the clouds of fable 

thrown, 
The wreaths of heaven descended on 

her shrine, 
And wondering earth proclaimed the 

Muse divine. 
Yet, if her votaries had but dared pro- 
fane 
The mystic symbols of her sacred reign, 
How had they smiled beneath the veil 

to find 
What slender threads can chain the 

mighty mind ! 

Poets, like painters, their machinery 

claim, 
And verse bestows the varnish and the 

frame ; 
Our grating English, whose Teutonic jar 
Shakes the racked axle of Art's rattling 

car, 
Fits like mosaic in the lines that gird 
Fast in its place each many-angled word ; 
From Saxon lips Anacreon's numbers 

glide, 
As once they melted on the Teian tide, 
And, fresh transfused, the Iliad thrills 

again 
From Albion's cliffs as o'er Achaia's 

plain ! 
The proud heroic, with its pulse-like 

beat, 
Rings like the cymbals clashing as they 

meet ; 
The sweet Spenserian, gathering as it 

flows, 
Sweeps gently onward to its dying close, 
Where waves on waves in long succes- 
sion pour, 
Till the ninth billow melts along the 

shore j 



The lonely spirit of the mournful lay, 
Which lives immortal as the verse of 

Gray, 
In sable plumage slowly drifts along, 
On eagle pinion, through the air of 

song; 
The glittering lyric bounds elastic by, 
With flashing ringlets and exulting eye, 
While every image, in her airy whirl, 
Gleams like a diamond on a dancing 

girl! 

Born with mankind, with man's ex- 
panded range 
And varying fates the poet's numbers 

change ; 
Thus in his history may we hope to find 
Some clearer epochs of the poet's mind, 
As from the cradle of its birth we trace, 
Slow wandering forth, the patriarchal 



race. 



I. 



When the green earth, beneath the 

zephyr's wing, 
Wears on her breast the varnished buds 

of Spring ; 
When the loosed current, as its folds 

uncoil, 
Slides in the channels of the mellowed 

soil ; 
When the young hyacinth returns to 

seek 
The air and sunshine with her emerald 

beak ; 
When the light snowdrops, starting from 

their cells, 
Hang each pagoda with its silver bells ; 
When the frail willow twines her trail- 
ing bow 
With pallid leaves that sweep the soil 

below ; 
When the broad elm, sole empress of 

the plain, 



When the loosed cm rent, as its folds uncoil, 
les in the chaiin, he mellowed soil 



J. mi ■ ' 




POETRY: A METRICAL ESSAY. 



17 



Whose circling shadow speaks a cen- 
tury's reign, 

Wreathes in the clouds her regal dia- 
dem, — 

A forest waving on a single stem ; — 

Then mark the poet ; though to him 
unknown 

The quaint-mouthed titles, such as 
scholars own, 

See how his eye in ecstasy pursues 

The steps of Nature tracked in radiant 
hues ; 

Nay, in thyself, whate'er may be thy 
fate, 

Pallid with toil, or surfeited with state, 

Mark how thy fancies, with the vernal 
rose, 

Awake, all sweetness, from their long 
repose ; 

Then turn to ponder o'er the classic 
page, 

Traced with the idyls of a greener 
age, 

And learn the instinct which arose to 
warm 

Art's earliest essay, and her simplest 
form. 

To themes like these her narrow path 

confined 
The first-born impulse moving in the 

mind ; 
In vales unshaken by the trumpet's 

sound, 
Where peaceful Labor tills his fertile 

ground, 
The silent changes of the rolling years, 
Marked on the soil, or dialled on the 

spheres, 
The crested forests and the colored 

flowers, 
The dewy grottos and the blushing 

bowers, 
These, and their guardians, who, with 

liquid names, 



Strephons and Chloes, melt in mutual 
flames, 

Woo the young Muses from their moun- 
tain shade, 

To make Arcadias in the lonely glade. 

Nor think they visit only with their 

smiles 
The fabled valleys and Elysian isles ; 
He who is wearied of his village plain 
May roam the Edens of the world in 

vain. 
'T is not the star-crowned cliff, the 

cataract's flow, 
The softer foliage, or the greener glow, 
The lake of sapphire, or the spar-hung 

cave, 
The brighter sunset, or the broader wave, 
Can warm his heart whom every wind 

has blown 
To every shore, forgetful of his own. 

Home of our childhood ! how affection 

clings 
And hovers round thee with her seraph 

wings ! 
Dearer thy hills, though clad in autumn 

brown, 
Than fairest summits which the cedars 

crown ! 
Sweeter the fragrance of thy summer 

breeze 
Than all Arabia breathes along the seas ! 
The stranger's gale wafts home the exile's 

sigh, 
For the heart's temple is its own blue 

sky! 

happiest they, whose early love 

unchanged, 
Hopes undissolved, and friendship un- 

estranged, 
Tired of their wanderings, still can 

deign to see 
Love, hopes, and friendship, centring 

all in thee ! 



18 



EARLIER POEMS. 



And thou, my village ! as again I 

tread 
Amidst thy living, and above thy dead ; 
Though some fair playmates guard with 

chaster fears 
Their cheeks, grown holy with the lapse 

of years ; 
Though with the dust some reverend 

locks may blend, 
Where life's last mile-stone marks the 

journey's end ; 
On every bud the changing year recalls, 
The brightening glance of morning mem- 
ory falls, 
Still following onward as the months 

unclose 
The balmy lilac or the bridal rose ; 
And still shall follow, till they sink once 

more 
Beneath the snow-drifts of the frozen 

shore, 
As when my bark, long tossing in the 

gale, 
Furled in her port her tempest-rended 

sail ! 

"What shall I give thee ? Can a sim- 
ple lay, 

Flung on thy bosom like a girl's bouquet, 

Do more than deck thee for an idle 
hour, 

Then fall unheeded, fading like the 
flower ? 

Yet, when I trod, with footsteps wild 
and free, 

The crackling leaves beneath yon linden- 
tree, 

Panting from play, or dripping from the 
stream, 

How bright the visions of my boyish 
dream ! 

Or, modest Charles, along thy broken 
edge, 

Black with soft ooze and fringed with 
arrowy sedge, 



As once I wandered in the morning sun, 
With reeking sandal and superfluous 

gun; 
How oft, as Fancy whispered in the gale, 
Thou wast the Avon of her flattering 

tale! 
Ye hills, whose foliage, fretted on the 

skies, 
Prints shadowy arches on their evening 

dyes, 
How should my song with holiest charm 

invest 
Each dark ravine and forest-lifting crest ! 
How clothe in beauty each familiar scene, 
Till all was classic on my native green ! 

As the drained fountain, filled with 

autumn leaves, 
The field swept naked of its garnered 

sheaves ; 
So wastes at noon the promise of our 

dawn, 
The springs all choking, and the harvest 

gone. 

Yet hear the lay of one whose natal star 

Still seemed the brightest when it shone 
afar; 

Whose cheek, grown pallid with ungra- 
cious toil, 

Glows in the welcome of his parent soil ; 

And ask no garlands sought beyond the 
tide, 

But take the leaflets gathered at your 
side. 1 

II. 

But times were changed ; the torch 
of terror came, 

To light the summits with the beacon's 
flame ; 

The streams ran crimson, the tall moun- 
tain pines 

Rose a new forest o'er embattled lines ; 

1 For " The Cambridge Churchyard," see p. Z 



POETEY: A METRICAL ESSAY. 



19 



The bloodless sickle lent the warrior's 
steel, , 

The harvest bowed beneath his chariot 
wheel ; 

Where late the wood-dove sheltered her 
repose 

The raven waited for the conflict's close ; 

The cuirassed sentry walked his sleep- 
less round 

Where Daphne smiled or Amaryllis 
frowned ; 

Where timid minstrels sung their blush- 
ing charms, 

Some wild Tyrtseus called aloud, "To 
arms ! " 

When Glory wakes, when fiery spirits 
leap, 

Roused by her accents from their tran- 
quil sleep, 

The ray that flashes from the soldier's 
crest 

Lights, as it glances, in the poet's 
breast ; — 

Not in pale dreamers, whose fantastic 
lay 

Toys with smooth trifles like a child at 
play, 

But men, who act the passions they in- 
spire, 

Who wave the sabre as they sweep the 
lyre ! 

Ye mild enthusiasts, whose pacific 
frowns 

Are lost like dew-drops caught in burn- 
ing towns, 

Pluck as ye will the radiant plumes of 
fame, 

Break Caesar's bust to make yourselves 
a name ; 

But, if your country bares the avenger's 
blade 

For wrongs unpunished, or for debts 
unpaid, 



When the roused nation bids her armies 
form, 

And screams her eagle through the gath- 
ering storm, 

When from your ports the bannered 
frigate rides, 

Her black bows scowling to the crested 
tides, 

Your hour has past ; in vain your feeble 
cry, 

As the babe's wailings to the thundering 
sky! 

Scourge of mankind ! with all the 
dread array 
That wraps in wrath thy desolating way, 
As the wild tempest wakes the slumber- 
ing sea, 
Thou only teachest all that man can 

be. 
Alike thy tocsin has the power to charm 
The toil-knit sinews of the rustic's arm, 
Or swell the pulses in the poet's veins, 
And bid the nations tremble at his 
strains. 

The city slept beneath the moonbeam's 
glance, 

Her white walls gleaming through the 
vines of France, 

And all was hushed, save where the 
footsteps fell, 

On some high tower, of midnight senti- 
nel. 

But one still watched ; no self-encircled 
woes 

Chased from his lids the angel of repose ; 

He watched, he wept, for thoughts of 
bitter years 

Bowed his dark lashes, wet with burning 
tears : 

His country's sufferings and her chil- 
dren's shame 

Streamed o'er his memory like a forest's 
flame, 



20 



EARLIER POEMS. 



Each treasured insult, each remembered 

wrong, 
Rolled through his heart and kindled 

into song : 
His taper faded ; and the morning gales 
Swept through the world the war-song 

of Marseilles ! 

Now, while around the smiles of Peace 
expand, 

And Plenty's wreaths festoon the laugh- 
ing land ; 

While France ships outward her reluc- 
tant ore, 

And half our navy basks upon the shore ; 

From ruder themes our meek-eyed Muses 
turn 

To crown with roses their enamelled urn. 

If e'er again return those awful days 

"Whose clouds were crimsoned with the 
beacon's blaze, 

Whose grass was trampled by the sol- 
dier's heel, 

Whose tides were reddened round the 
rushing keel, 

God grant some lyre may wake a nobler 
strain 

To rend the silence of our tented plain ! 

When Gallia's flag its triple fold dis- 
plays, 

Her marshalled legions peal the Mar- 
seillaise ; 

When round the German close the war- 
clouds dim, 

Far through their shadows floats his 
battle-hymn ; 

When, crowned with joy, the camps of 
England ring, 

A thousand voices shout, " God save the 
King!" 

When victory follows with our eagle's 
glance, 

Our nation's anthem pipes a country 
dance! 



Some prouder Muse, when comes the 
hour at last, 

May shake our hillsides with her bugle- 
blast ; 

Not ours the task ; but since the lyric 
dress 

Relieves the statelier with its sprightli- 
ness, 

Hear an old song, which some, per- 
chance, have seen 

In stale gazette, or cobwebbed magazine. 

There was an hour when patriots dared 
profane 

The mast that Britain strove to bow in 
vain ; 

And one, who listened to the tale of 
shame, 

Whose heart still answered to that 
sacred name, 

Whose eye still followed o'er his coun- 
try's tides 

Thy glorious flag, our brave Old Iron- 
sides ! 

From yon lone attic, on a summer's morn, 

Thus mocked the spoilers with his 
school-boy scorn. 1 

III. 

When florid Peace resumed her golden 

reign, 
And arts revived, and valleys bloomed 

again ; 
While War still panted on his broken 

blade, 
Once more the Muse her heavenly wing 

essayed. 
Rude was the song ; some ballad, stern 

and wild, 
Lulled the light slumbers of the soldier's 

child ; 
Or young romancer, with his threatening 

glance 

i For " Old Ironsides," see p. L. 



POETRY: A METRICAL ESSAY. 



21 



And fearful fables of his bloodless lance, 
Scared the soft fancy of the clinging girls, 
Whose snowy fingers smoothed his raven 

curls. 
But when long years the stately form 

had bent, 
And faithless memory her illusions lent, 
So vast the outlines of Tradition grew, 
That Histery wondered at the shapes 

she drew, 
And veiled at length their too ambitious 

hues 
Beneath the pinions of the Epic Muse. 

Far swept her wing ; for stormier days 
had brought 
With darker passions deeper tides of 

thought. 
The camp's harsh tumult and the con- 
flict's glow, 
The thrill of triumph and the gasp of woe, 
The tender parting and the glad return, 
The festal banquet and the funeral urn, — 
And all the drama which at once uprears 
Its spectral shadows through the clash 

of spears, 
From camp and field to echoing verse 

transferred, 
Swelled the proud song that listening 
nations heard. 

Why floats the amaranth in eternal 

bloom 
O'er Ilium's turrets and Achilles' tomb ? 
Why lingers fancy, where the sunbeams 

smile 
On Circe's gardens and Calypso's isle ? 
Why follows memory to the gate of 

Troy 
Her plumed defender and his trembling 

boy? 
Lo ! the blind dreamer, kneeling on the 

sand, 
To trace these records with his doubtful 

hand ; 



In fabled tones his own emotion flows, 
And other lips repeat his silent woes ; 
In Hector's infant see the babes that 

shun 
Those deathlike eyes, unconscious of the 

sun, 
Or in his hero hear himself implore, 
"Give me to see, and Ajax asks nc 

more ! " 

Thus live undying through the lapse 

of time 
The solemn legends of the warrior's 

clime ; 
Like Egypt's pyramid, or Psestum's fane, 
They stand the heralds of the voiceless 

plain ; 
Yet not like them, for Time, by slow 

degrees, 
Saps the gray stone, and wears the em- 
broidered frieze, 
And Isis sleeps beneath her subject 

Nile, 
And erumbled Neptune strews his 

Dorian pile ; 
But Art's fair fabric, strengthening as 

it rears 
Its laurelled columns through the mist 

of years, 
As the blue arches of the bending skies 
Still gird the torrent, following as it 

flies, 
Spreads, with the surges bearing on 

mankind, 
Its starred pavilion o'er the tides of 

mind ! 

In vain the patriot asks some lofty lay 

To dress in state our wars of yesterday. 

The classic days, those mothers of ro- 
mance, 

That roused a nation for a woman's 
glance ; 

The age of mystery with its hoarded 
power, 



22 



EARLIER POEMS. 



That girt the tyrant in his storied tower, 
Have past and faded like a dream of 

youth, 
And riper eras ask for history's truth. 

On other shores, above their moulder- 
ing towns, 
In sullen pomp the tall cathedral frowns, 
Pride in its aisles, and paupers at the 

door, 
Which feeds the "beggars whom it fleeced 

of yore. 
Simple and frail, our lowly temples 

throw 
Their slender shadows on the paths 

below ; 
Scarce steal the winds, that sweep his 

woodland tracks, 
The larch's perfume from the settler's 

axe, 
Ere, like a vision of the morning air, 
His slight-framed steeple marks the 

house of prayer ; 
Its planks all reeking, and its paint 

undried, 
Its rafters sprouting on the shady side, 
It sheds the raindrops from its shingled 

eaves, 
Ere its green brothers once have changed 

their leaves. 

Yet Faith's pure hymn, beneath its 
shelter rude, 

Breathes out as sweetly to the tangled 
wood, 

As where the rays through pictured glo- 
ries pour 

On marble shaft and tessellated floor ; — 

Heaven asks no surplice round the heart 
that feels, 

And all is holy where devotion kneels. 

Thus on the soil the patriot's knee 
should bend, 
Which holds the dust once living to 
defend ; 



Where'er the hireling shrinks before 
the free, 

Each pass becomes " a new Thermopy- 
lae"! 

Where'er the battles of the brave are 
won, 

There every mountain "looks on Mara- 
thon " ! 

Our fathers live ; they guard in glory 

still 
The grass-grown bastions of the for- 

tressed hill ; 
Still ring the echoes of the trampled gorge, 
With God and Freedom! England and 

Saint George I 
The royal cipher on the captured gun 
Mocks the sharp night-dews and the 

blistering sun ; 
The red-cross banner shades its captor's 

bust, 
Its folds still loaded with the conflict's 

dust ; 
The drum, suspended by its tattered 

marge, 
Once rolled and rattled to the Hessian's 

charge ; 
The stars have floated from Britannia's 

mast, 
The redcoat's trumpets blown the rebel's 

blast. 

Point to the summits where the brave 
have bled, 

Where every village claims its glorious 
dead ; 

Say, when their bosoms met the bay- 
onet's shock, 

Their only corselet was the rustic frock ; 

Say, when they mustered to the gather- 
ing horn, 

The titled chieftain curled his lip in 
scorn, 

Yet, when their leader bade his linea 
advance, 



POETRY: A METRICAL ESSAY. 



23 



No musket wavered in the lion's glance ; 
Say, when they fainted in the forced 

retreat, 
They tracked the snow-drifts with their 

bleeding feet, 
Yet still their banners, tossing in the 

blast, 
Bore Ever Ready, faithful to the last, 
Through storm and battle, till they 

waved again 
On Yorktown's hills and Saratoga's 

plain ! 

Then, if so fierce the insatiate pa- 
triot's flame, 

Truth looks too pale, and history seems 
too tame, 

Bid him await some new Columbiad's 
page, 

To gild the tablets of an iron age, 

And save his tears, which yet may fall 
upon 

Some fabled field, some fancied Wash- 
ington ! 

IV. 

But once again, from their .<Eolian 

cave, 
The winds of Genius wandered on the 

wave. 
Tired of the scenes the timid pencil 

drew, 
Sick of the notes the sounding clarion 

blew ; 
Sated with heroes who had worn so long 
The shadowy plumage of historic song ; 
The new-born poet left the beaten 

course, 
To track the passions to their living 

source. 

Then rose the Drama ; — and the 
world admired 
Her varied page with deeper thought 
inspired ; 



Bound to no clime, for Passion's throb 

is one 
In Greenland's twilight or in India's 

sun ; 
Born for no age, — for all the thoughts 

that roll 
In the dark vortex of the stormy soul, 
Unchained in song, no freezing years 

can tame ; 
God gave them birth, and man is still 

the same. 

So full on life her magic mirror shone, 
Her sister Arts paid tribute to her 

throne ; 
One reared her temple, one her canvas 

warmed, 
And Music thrilled, while Eloquence 

informed. 
The weary rustic left his stinted task 
For smiles and tears, the dagger and 

the mask ; 
The sage, turned scholar, half forgot his 

lore, 
To be the woman he despised before ; 
O'er sense and thought she threw her 

golden chain, 
And Time, the anarch, spares her death- 
less reign. 

Thus lives Medea, in our tamer age, 
As when her buskin pressed the Grecian 

stage; 
Not in the cells where frigid learning 

delves 
In Aldine folios mouldering on their 

shelves ; 
But breathing, burning in the glitter- 
ing throng, 
Whose thousand bravoes roll untired 

along, 
Circling and spreading through the 

gilded halls, 
From London's galleries to San Carlo's 

walls 1 



24 



EARLIER POEMS. 



Thus shall he live whose more than 

mortal name 
Mocks with its ray the pallid torch of 

Fame ; 
So proudly lifted, that it seems afar 
No earthly Pharos, but a heavenly star ; 
Who, unconfined to Art's diurnal 

bound, 
ftirds her whole zodiac in his flaming 

round, 
And leads the passions, like the orb 

that guides, 
From pole to pole, the palpitating tides ! 



Though round the Muse the robe of 

song is thrown, 
Think not the poet lives in verse alone. 
Long ere the chisel of the sculptor 

taught 
The lifeless stone to mock the living 

thought ; 
Long ere the painter bade the canvas glow 
"With every line the forms of beauty 

know ; 
Long ere the iris of the Muses threw 
On every leaf its own celestial hue ; 
In fable's dress the breath of genius 

poured, 
And warmed the shapes that later times 

adored. 

Untaught by Science how to forge the 
keys, 

That loose the gates of Nature's myste- 
ries ; 

Unschooled by Faith, who, with her 
angel tread, 

Leads through the labyrinth with a 
single thread, 

His fancy, hovering round her guarded 
tower, 

Rained through its bars like Danae's 
golden shower. 



He spoke ; the sea-nymph answered 
from her cave : 

He called ; the naiad left her mountain 
wave : 

He dreamed of beauty ; lo, amidst his 
dream, 

Narcissus, mirrored in the breathless 
stream ; 

And night's chaste empress, in her bri- 
dal play, 

Laughed through the foliage where 
Endymion lay ; 

And ocean dimpled, as the languid swell 

Kissed the red lip of Cytherea's shell : 

Of power, — Bellona swept the crimson 
field, 

And blue-eyed Pallas shook her Gor- 
gon shield ; 

O'er the hushed waves their mightier 
monarch drove, 

And Ida trembled to the tread of Jove ! 

So every grace that plastic language 

knows 
To nameless poets its perfection owes. 
The rough-hewn words to simplest 

thoughts confined 
"Were cut and polished in their nicer 

mind ; 
Caught on their edge, imagination's ray 
Splits into rainbows, shooting far 

away ; — 
From sense to soul, from soul to sense, 

it flies, 
And through all nature links analogies ; 
He who reads right will rarely look 

upon 
A better poet than his lexicon ! 

There is a race, which cold, ungenial 

skies 
Breed from decay, as fungous growths 

arise ; 
Though dying fast, yet springing fast 

again, 



POETRY: A METRICAL ESSAY. 



25 



Which still usurps an unsubstantial 
reign, 

With frames too languid for the charms 
of sense, 

And minds worn down with action too 
intense ; 

Tired of a world whose joys they never 
knew, 

Themselves deceived, yet thinking all 
untrue ; 

Scarce men without, and less than girls 
within, 

Sick of their life before its cares be- 
gin ; — 

The dull disease, which drains their 
feeble hearts, 

To life's decay some hectic thrills im- 
parts, 

And lends a force, which, like the 
maniac's power, 

Pays with blank years the frenzy of an 
hour. 

And this is Genius ! Say, does 

Heaven degrade 
The manly frame, for health, for action 

made ? 
Break down the sinews, rack the brow 

with pains, 
Blanch the bright cheek, and drain the 

purple veins, 
To clothe the mind with more extended 

sway, 
Thus faintly struggling in degenerate 

clay? 

No ! gentle maid, too ready to ad- 
mire, 

Though false its notes, the pale enthusi- 
ast's lyre ; 

If this be genius, though its bitter springs 

Glowed like the morn beneath Aurora's 
wings, 

Seek not the source whose sullen bosom 
feeds 



But fruitless flowers, and dark, enven- 
omed weeds. 

But, if so bright the dear illusion 
seems, 

Thou wouldst be partner of thy poet's 
dreams, 

And hang in rapture on his bloodless 
charms, 

Or die, like Raphael, in his angel arms ; 

Go, and enjoy thy blessed lot, — to 
share 

In Cowper's gloom, or Chatterton's de- 
spair ! 

Not such were they, whom, wander- 
ing o'er the waves, 
I looked to meet, but only found their 

graves ; 
If friendship's smile, the better part of 

fame, 
Should lend my song the only wreath I 

claim, 
Whose voice would greet me with a 

sweeter tone, 
Whose living hand more kindly press 

my own, 
Than theirs, — could Memory, as her 

silent tread 
Prints the pale flowers that blossom o'er 

the dead, 
Those breathless lips, now closed in 

peace, restore, 
Or wake those pulses hushed to beat no 

more ? 

Thou calm, chaste scholar ! I can see 

thee now, 
The first young laurels" on thy pallid 

brow, 
O'er thy slight figure floating lightly 

down 
In graceful folds the academic gown, 
On thy curled lip the classic lines, that 

taught 



26 



EARLIER POEMS. 



How nice the mind that sculptured 

them with thought, 
And triumph glistening in the clear 

blue eye, 
Too bright to live, — but 0, too fair to 

die ! 

And thou, dear friend, whom Science 

still deplores, 
And love still mourns, on ocean-severed 

shores, 
Though the bleak forest twice has bowed 

with snow, 
Since thou wast laid its budding leaves 

below, 
Thine image mingles with my closing 

strain, 
As when we wandered by the turbid Seine, 
Both blest with hopes, which revelled, 

bright and free, 
On all we longed, or all we dreamed to 

be ; 
To thee the amaranth and the cypress 

fell,— 
And I was spared to breathe this last 

farewell ! 

But lived there one in unremembered 

days, 
Or lives there still, who spurns the poet's 

bays, 
Whose fingers, dewy from Castalia's 

springs, 
Rest on the lyre, yet scorn to touch the 

strings ? 
Who shakes the senate with the silver 

tone 
The groves of Pindus might have sighed 

to own ? 



Have such e'er been ? Remember Can* 

ning's name ! 
Do such still live ? Let ' ' Alaric's Dirge " 

proclaim ! 

Immortal Art ! where'er the rounded 

sky 
Bends o'er the cradle where thy children 

lie, 
Their home is. earth, their herald every 

tongue 
Whose accents echo to the voice that 

sung. 
One leap of Ocean scatters on the sand 
The quarried bulwarks of the loosening 

land ; 
One thrill of earth dissolves a century's 

toil 
Strewed like the leaves that vanish in 

the soil ; 
One hill o'erflows, and cities sink below, 
Their marbles splintering in the lava's 

glow; 
But one sweet tone, scarce whispered to 

the air, 
From shore to shore the blasts of ages 

bear; 
One humble name, which oft, perchance, 

has borne 
The tyrant's mockery and the courtier's 

scorn, 
Towers o'er the dust of earth's forgotten 

graves, 
As once, emerging through the waste of 

waves, 
The rocky Titan, round whose shattered 

spear 
Coiled the last whirlpool of the drowning 

sphere 1 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



1837-1848. 



THE PILGRIM'S VISION. 

In the hour of twilight shadows 

The Pilgrim sire looked out ; 
He thought of the "bloudy Salvages" 

That lurked all round about, 
Of Wituwamet's pictured knife 

And Pecksuot's whooping shout ; 
For the baby's limbs were feeble, 

Though his father's arms were stout. 

His home was a freezing cabin, 

Too bare for the hungry rat, 
Its roof was thatched with ragged grass, 

And bald enough of that ; 
The hole that served for casement 

Was glazed with an ancient hat ; 
And the ice was gently thawing 

From the log whereon he sat. 

Along the dreary landscape 

His eyes went to and fro, 
The trees all clad in icicles, 

The streams that did not flow ; 
A sudden thought flashed o'er him, — 

A dream of long ago, — 
He smote his leathern jerkin, 

And murmured, " Even so ! " 

" Come hither, God-be-Glorified, 

And sit upon my knee, 
Behold the dream unfolding, 

Whereof I spake to thee 



By the winter's hearth in Leyden 

And on the stormy sea ; 
True is the dream's beginning, — 

So may its ending be ! 

" I saw in the naked forest 

Our scattered remnant cast, 
A screen of shivering branches 

Between them and the blast ; 
The snow was falling round them, 

The dying fell as fast ; 
I looked to see them perish, 

When lo, the vision passed. 

" Again mine eyes were opened ; — 

The feeble had waxed strong, 
The babes had grown to sturdy men, 

The remnant was a throng ; 
By shadowed lake and winding stream. 

And all the shores along, 
The howling demons quaked to hear 

The Christian's godly song. 

" They slept, — the village fathers, — 

By river, lake, and shore, 
When far adown the steep of Time 

The vision rose once more ; 
I saw along the winter snow 

A spectral column pour, 
And high above their broken ranks 

A tattered flag they bore. 

" Their Leader rode before them. 
Of bearing calm and high, 



28 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



The light of Heaven's own kindling 

Throned in his awful eye ; 
These were a Nation's champions 

Her dread appeal to try ; 
God for the right ! I faltered, 

And lo, the train passed by. 

" Once more ; — the strife is ended, 

The solemn issue tried, 
The Lord of Hosts, his mighty arm 

Has helped our Israel's side ; 
Gray stone and grassy hillock 

Tell where our martyrs died, 
3ut peaceful smiles the harvest, 

And stainless flows the tide. 

" A crash, — as when some swollen cloud 

Cracks o'er the tangled trees ! 
With side to side, and spar to spar, 

"Whose smoking decks are these ? 
I know Saint George's blood- red cross, 

Thou Mistress of the Seas, — 
But what is she, whose streaming bars 

Roll out before the breeze ? 

"Ah, well her iron ribs are knit, 
"Whose thunders strive to quell 
The bellowing throats, the blazing lips, 

That pealed the Armada's knell ! 
The mist was cleared, — a wreath of 
stars 
Rose o'er the crimsoned swell, 
And, wavering from its haughty peak, 
The cross of England fell ! 

" trembling Faith ! though dark the 
morn, 

A heavenly torch is thine ; 
While feebler races melt away, 

And paler orbs decline, 
Still shall the fiery pillar's ray, 

Along thy pathway shine, 
To light the chosen tribe that sought 

This Western Palestine 1 



"I see the living tide roll on ; 

It crowns with flaming towers 
The icy capes of Labrador, 

The Spaniard's ' land of flowers ' ! 
It streams beyond the splintered ridge 

That parts the Northern showers ; 
From eastern rock to sunset wave 

The Continent is ours ! " 

He ceased, — the grim old soldier-saint, — 

Then softly bent to cheer 
The pilgrim-child, whose wasting face 

Was meekly turned to hear ; 
And drew his toil-worn sleeve across, 

To brush the manly tear 
From cheeks that never changed in woe, 

And never blanched in fear. 

The weary pilgrim slumbers, 

His resting-place unknown ; 
His hands were crossed, his lids were 
closed, 

The dust was o'er him strown ; 
The drifting soil, the mouldering leaf, 

Along the sod were blown ; 
His mound has melted into earth, 

His memory lives alone. 

So let it live unfading, 

The memory of the dead, 
Long as the pale anemone 

Springs where their tears were shed, 
Or, raining in the summer's wind 

In flakes of burning red, 
The wild rose sprinkles with its leaves 

The turf where once they bled ! 

Yea, when the frowning bulwarks 

That guard this holy strand 
Have sunk beneath the trampling surge 

In beds of sparkling sand, 
While in the waste of ocean 

One hoary rock shall stand, 
Be this its latest legend, — 

Here was the Pilgrim's land 1 



THE STEAMBOAT. — LEXINGTON". 



29 



THE STEAMBOAT. 

See how yon flaming herald treads 

The ridged and rolling waves, 
As, crashing o'er their crested heads, 

She bows her surly slaves ! 
With foam before and fire behind, 

She rends the clinging sea, 
That flies before the roaring wind, 

Beneath her hissing lee. 

The morning spray, like sea-born flow- 
ers, 

With heaped and glistening bells, 
Falls round her fast, in ringing show- 
ers, 

With every wave that swells ; 
And, burning o'er the midnight deep, 

In lurid fringes thrown, 
The living gems of ocean sweep 

Along her flashing zone. 

With clashing wheel, and lifting keel, 

And smoking torch on high, 
When winds are loud, and billows reel, 

She thunders foaming by ; 
When seas are silent and serene, 

With even beam she glides, 
The sunshine glimmering through the 
green 

That skirts her gleaming sides. 

Now, like a wild nymph, far apart 

She veils her shadowy form, 
The beating of her restless heart 

Still sounding through the storm ; 
Now answers, like a courtly dame, 

The reddening surges o'er, 
With flying scarf of spangled flame, 

The Pharos of the shore. 

To-night yon pilot shall not sleep, 
Who trims his narrowed sail ; 

To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep 
Her broad breast to the gale ; 



And many a foresail, scooped and 
strained, 

Shall break from yard and st?y, 
Before this smoky wreath has stained 

The rising mist of day. 

Hark ! hark ! I hear yon whistling 
shroud, 

I see yon quivering mast ; 
The black throat of the hunted cloud 

Is panting forth the blast ! 
An hour, and, whirled like winnowing 
chaff, 

The giant surge shall fling 
His tresses o'er yon pennon staff, 

White as the sea-bird's wing ! 

Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep ; 

Nor wind nor wave shall tire 
Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap 

With floods of living fire ; 
Sleep on, — and, when the morning 
light 

Streams o'er the shining bay, 
think of those for whom the night 

Shall never wake in day ! 



LEXINGTON. 

Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was 
creeping, 
Bright on the dewy buds glistened 
the sun, 
When from his couch, while his chil- 
dren were sleeping, 
Rose the bold rebel and shouldered 
his gun. 
Waving her golden veil 
Over the silent dale, 
Blithe looked the morning on cottage 
and spire ; 
Hushed was his parting sigh, 
While from his noble eye 
Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire. 



30 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



On the smooth green where the fresh 
leaf is springing 
Calmly the first-born of glory have 
met ; 
Hark ! the death-volley around them is 
ringing ! 
Look ! with their life-blood the 
young grass is wet ! 
Faint is the feeble breath, 
Murmuring low in death, 
"Tell to our sons how their fathers 
have died " ; 
Nerveless the iron hand, 
Raised for its native land, 
Lies by the weapon that gleams at its 
side. 

Over the hillsides the wild knell is 
tolling, 
From their far hamlets the yeomanry 
come ; 
As through the storm-clouds the thun- 
der-burst rolling, 
Circles the beat of the mustering 
drum. 
Fast on the soldier's path 
Darken the waves of wrath, 
Long have they gathered and loud shall 
they fall ; 
Red glares the musket's flash, 
Sharp rings the rifle's crash, 
Blazing and clanging from thicket and 
walL 

Gayly the plume of the horseman was 
dancing, 
Never to shadow his cold brow again ; 
Proudly at morning the war-steed was 
prancing, 
Eeeking and panting he droops on the 
rein ; 
Pale is the lip of scorn, 
Voiceless the trumpet horn, 
Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on 
high; 



Many a belted breast 
Low on the turf shall rest, 
Ere the dark hunters the herd have 
passed by. 

Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse 
wind is raving, 
Rocks where the weary floods murmur 
and wail, 
Wilds where the fern by the furrow is 
waving, 
Reeled with the echoes that rode on 
the gale ; 
Far as the tempest thrills 
Over the darkened hills, 
Far as the sunshine streams over the 
plain, 
Roused by the tyrant band, 
Woke all the mighty land, 
Girded for battle, from mountain to 
main. 

Green be the graves where her martyrs 
are lying ! 
Shroudless and tombless they sunk to 
their rest, — 
While o'er their ashes the starry fold 
flying 
Wraps the proud eagle they roused 
from his nest. 
Borne on her Northern pine, 
Long o'er the foaming brine 
Spread her broad banner to storm and 
to sun ; 
Heaven keep her ever free, 
Wide as o'er land and sea 
Floats the fair emblem her heroes have 
won ! 

ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL. 

This ancient silver bowl of mine, it 

tells of good old times, 
Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and 

merry Christmas chimes ; 



Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling, 
From their far hamlets the yeomanry come 



ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL. 



31 



They were a free and jovial race, but 

honest, brave, and true, 
That dipped their ladle in the punch 

when this old bowl was new. 

A Spanish galleon brought the bar ; so 

runs the ancient tale ; 
'T was hammered by an Antwerp smith, 

whose arm was like a flail ; 
And now and then between the strokes, 

for fear his strength should fail, 
He wiped his brow, and quaffed a cup 

of good old Flemish ale. 

T was purchased by an English squire 

to please his loving dame, 
Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a 

longing for the same ; 
And oft as on the ancient stock another 

twig was found, 
'T was filled with caudle spiced and hot, 

and handed smoking round. 

But, changing hands, it reached at 

length a Puritan divine, 
Who used to follow Timothy, and take 

a little wine, 
But hated punch and prelacy ; and so it 

was, perhaps, 
He went to Ley den, where he found 

conventicles and sclmaps. 

And then, of course, you know what 's 

next, — it left the Dutchman's shore 
With those that in the Mayflower came, 

— a hundred souls and more, — 
Along with all the furniture, to fill their 

new abodes, — 
To judge by what is still on hand, at 

least a hundred loads. 

T was on a dreary winter's eve, the 

night was closing dim, 
When brave Miles Standish took the 

bowl, and filled it to the brim ; 



The little Captain stood and stirred the 

posset with his sword, 
And all his sturdy men-at-arms were 



ranged about the board. 



He poured the fiery Hollands In, — the 

man that never feared, — 
He took a long and solemn draught, and 

wiped his yellow beard ; 
And one by one the musketeers — the 

men that fought and prayed — 
All drank as 't were their mother's 

milk, and not a man afraid. 

That night, affrighted from his nest, the 

screaming eagle flew, 
He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, 

the soldier's wild halloo ; 
And there the sachem learned the rule 

he taught to kith and kin, 
" Run from the white man when you 

find he smells of Hollands gin ! " 

A hundred years, and fifty more, had 

spread their leaves and snows, 
A thousand rubs had flattened down 

each little cherub's nose, 
When once again the bowl was filled, 

but not in mirth or joy, 
'T was mingled by a mother's hand to 

cheer her parting boy. 

Drink, John, she said, 't will do you 

good, — poor child, you '11 never 

bear 
This working in the dismal trench, out 

in the midnight air ; 
And if — God bless me ! — you were 

hurt, 't would keep away the chill ; 
So John did drink, — and well he 

wrought that night at Bunker's Hill I 

I tell you, there was generous warmth 

» in good old English cheer ; 
I tell you, 't was a pleasant thought to 
bring its symbol here ; 



32 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



'T is but the fool that loves excess ; 

hast thou a drunken soul? 
Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in 

my silver bowl ! 

I love the memory of the past, —its 

pressed yet fragrant flowers, — 
The moss that clothes its broken walls, 

— the ivy on its towers ; — 
Nay, this poor bawble it bequeathed, — 

my eyes grow moist and dim, 
To think of all the vanished joys that 

danced around its brim. 

Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear 

it straight to me ; 
The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er 

the liquid be ; 
And may the cherubs on its face protect 

me from the sin, 
That dooms one to those dreadful words, 

— ' ' My dear, where have you been ? " 



A SONG 

FOR THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF 
HARVARD COLLEGE, 1836. 

"When the Puritans came over, 

Our hills and swamps to clear, 
The woods were full of catamounts, 

And Indians red as deer, 
"With tomahawks and scalping-knives, 

That make folks' heads look queer; — 
the ship from England used to bring 

A hundred wigs a year ! 

The crows came cawing through the air 

To pluck the pilgrims' corn, 
The bears came snuffing round the door 

"Whene'er a babe was born, 
The rattlesnakes were bigger round 

Than the but of the old ram's horn 
The deacon blew at meeting time 

On every "Sabbath" morn. 



But soon they knocked the wigwams 
down, 

And pine-tree trunk and limb 
Began to sprout among the leaves 

In shape of steeples slim ; 
And out the little wharves were stretched 

Along the ocean's rim, 
And up the little school-house shot 

To keep the boys in trim. 

And, when at length the College rose, 

The sachem cocked his eye 
At every tutor's meagre ribs 

"Whose coat-tails whistled by : 
But when the Greek and Hebrew words 

Came tumbling from their jaws, 
The copper-colored children all 

Ran screaming to the squaws. 

And who was on the Catalogue 

"When college was begun ? 
Two nephews of the President, 

And the Professor's son ; 
(They turned a little Indian by, 

As brown as any bun ;) 
Lord ! how the seniors knocked about 

The freshman class of one ! 

They had not then the dainty things 

That commons now afford, 
But succotash and homony 

"Were smoking on the board ; 
They did not rattle round in gigs, 

Or dash in long-tail blues, 
But always on Commencement days 

The tutors blacked their shoes. 

God bless the ancient Puritans ! 

Their lot was hard enough ; 
But honest hearts make iron arms, 

And tender maids are tough ; 
So love and faith have formed and fed 

Our true-born Yankee stuff, 
And keep the kernel in the shell 

The British found so rough ! 



THE ISLAND HUNTING-SONG. — THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 



33 



THE ISLAND HUNTING-SONG. 

No more the summer floweret charms, 

The leaves will soon be sere, 
And Autumn folds his jewelled arms 

Around the dying year ; 
So, ere the waning seasons claim 

Our leafless groves awhile, 
With golden wine and glowing flame 

"We '11 crown our lonely isle. 

Once more the merry voices sound 

Within the antlered hall, 
And long and loud the baying hounds 

Return the hunter's call ; 
And through the woods, and o'er the hill, 

And far along the bay, 
The driver's horn is sounding shrill, — 

Up, sportsmen, and away ! 

No bars of steel, or walls of stone, 

Our little empire bound, 
But, circling with his azure zone, 

The sea runs foaming round ; 
The whitening wave, the purpled skies, 

The blue and lifted shore, 
Braid with their dim and blending dyes 

Our wide horizon o'er. 

And who will leave the grave debate 

That shakes the smoky town, 
To rule amid our island-state, 

And wear our oak -leaf crown ? 
And who will be awhile content 

To hunt our woodland game, 
And leave the vulgar pack that scent 

The reeking track of fame ? 

Ah, who that shares in toils like these 

Will sigh not to prolong 
Our days beneath the broad-leaved trees, 

Our nights of mirth and song ? 
Then leave the dust of noisy streets, 

Ye outlaws of the wood, 
And follow through his green retreats 

Your noble Robin Hood. 



DEPARTED DAYS. 

Yes, dear departed, cherished days, 

Could Memory's hand restore 
Your morning light, your evening rays 

From Time's gray urn once more, — 
Then might this restless heart be still, 

This straining eye might close, 
And Hope her fainting pinions fold, 

While the fair phantoms rose. 

But, like a child in ocean's arms, 

We strive against the stream, 
Each moment farther from the shore 

Where life's young fountains gleam ;— 
Each moment fainter wave the fields, 

And wider rolls the sea ; 
The mist grows dark, — the sun goes 
down, — 

Day breaks, — and where are we f 

THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 

ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE. 

They bid me strike the idle strings, 

As if my summer days 
Had shaken sunbeams from their wings 

To warm my autumn lays ; 
They bring to me their painted urn, 

As if it were not time 
To lift my gauntlet and to spurn 

The lists of boyish rhyme ; 
And, were it not that I have still 

Some weakness in my heart 
That clings around my stronger will 

And pleads for gentler art, 
Perchance I had not turned away 

The thoughts grown tame with toil, 
To cheat this lone and pallid ray, 

That wastes the midnight oil. 

Alas ! with every year I feel 

Some roses leave my brow ; 
Too young for wisdom's tardy seal, 

Too old for garlands now ; 



34 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



Yet, while the dewy breath of spring 

Steals o'er the tingling air, 
And spreads and fans each emerald wing 

The forest soon shall wear, 
How bright the opening year would seem, 

Had I one look like thine, 
To meet me w 7 hen the morning beam 

Unseals these lids of mine ! 
Too long I bear this lonely lot, 

That bids my heart run wild 
To press the lips that love me not, 

To clasp the stranger's child. 

How oft beyond the dashing seas, 

Amidst those royal bowers, 
Where danced the lilacs in the breeze, 

And swung the chestnut- flowers, 
I wandered like a wearied slave 

Whose morning task is done, 
To watch the little hands that gave 

Their whiteness to the sun ; 
To revel in the bright young eyes, 

Whose lustre sparkled through 
The sable fringe of Southern skies 

Or gleamed in Saxon blue ! 
How oft I heard another's name 

Called in some truant's tone ; 
Sweet accents ! which I longed to claim, 

To learn and lisp my own ! 

Too soon the gentle hands, that pressed 

The ringlets of the child, 
Are folded on the faithful breast 

Where first he breathed and smiled ; 
Too oft the clinging arms untwine, 

The melting lips forget, 
And darkness veils the bridal shrine 

Where wreaths and torches met ; 
If Heaven but leaves a single thread 

Of Hope's dissolving chain, 
Even when her parting plumes are spread, 

It bids them fold again ; 
The cradle rocks beside the tomb ; 

The cheek now changed and chill 



Smiles on us in the morning bloom 
Of one that loves us still. 

Sweet image ! I have done thee wrong 

To claim this destined lay ; 
The leaf that asked an idle song 

Must bear my tears away. 
Yet, in thy memory shouldst thou keep 

This else forgotten strain, 
Till years have taught thine eyes to weep, 

And flattery's voice is vain ; 
then, thou fledgling of the nest, 

Like the long-wandering dove, 
Thy weary heart may faint for rest, 

As mine, on changeless love ; 
And while these sculptured lines retrace 

The hours now dancing by, 
This vision of thy girlish grace 

May cost thee, too, a sigh. 



SONG 

"WRITTEN FOR THE DINNER GIVEN TO 
CHARLES DICKENS, BY THE YOUNG 
MEN OF BOSTON, FEB. 1, 1842- 

The stars their early vigils keep, 

The silent hours are near, 
When drooping eyes forget to weep, — 

Yet still we linger here ; 
And what — the passing churl may ask— 

Can claim such wondrous power, 
That Toil forgets his wonted task, 

And Love his promised hour ? 

The Irish harp no longer thrills, 

Or breathes a fainter tone ; 
The clarion blast from Scotland's hills, 

Alas ! no more is blown ; 
And Passion's burning lip bewails 

Her Harold's wasted fire, 
Still lingering o'er the dust that veils 

The Lord of England's lyre. 

But grieve not o'er its broken strings, 
Nor think its soul hath died, 



LINES. 



35 



While yet the lark at heaven's gate sings, 
As once o'er Avon's side ; — 

While gentle summer sheds her bloom, 
And dewy blossoms wave, 

Alike o'er Juliet's storied tomb 
And Nelly's nameless grave. 

Thou glorious island of the sea ! 

Though wide the wasting flood 
That parts our distant land from thee, 

We claim thy generous blood ; 
Nor o'er thy far horizon springs 

One hallowed star of fame, 
But kindles, like an angel's wings, 

Our western skies in flame ! 



LINES 

RECITED AT THE BERKSHIRE FESTIVAL. 

Come back to your mother, ye children, 

for shame, 
Who have wandered like truants, for 

riches or fame ! 
With a smile on her face, and a sprig in 

her cap, 
She calls you to feast from her bountiful 

lap. 

Come out from your alleys, your courts, 

and your lanes, 
And breathe, like young eagles, the air 

of our plains ; 
Take a whiff from our fields, and your 

excellent wives 
Will declare it 's all nonsense insuring 

your lives. 

Come you of the law, who can talk, if 

you please, 
Till the man in the moon will allow it 's 

a cheese, 
And leave " the old lady, that never tells 

lies," 
To sleep with her handkerchief over her 

eyes. 



Ye healers of men, for a moment decline 
Your feats in the rhubarb and ipecac 

line ; 
While you shut up your turnpike, your 

neighbors can go, 
The old roundabout road, to the regions 

below. 

You clerk, on whose ears are a couple of 

pens, 
And whose head is an ant-hill of units 

and tens ; 
Though Plato denies you, we welcome 

you still 
As a featherless biped, in spite of your 

quill. 

Poor drudge of the city ! how happy he 

feels, 
With the burs on his legs, and the grass 

at his heels ! 
No dodger behind, his bandannas to 

share, 
No constable grumbling, "You mustn't 

walk there ! " 

In yonder green meadow, to memory 
dear, 

He slaps a mosquito and brushes a tear ; 

The dew-drops hang round him on blos- 
soms and shoots, 

He breathes but one sigh for his youth 
and his boots. 

There stands the old school-house, hard 

by the old church ; 
That tree at its side had the flavor of 

birch ; 
sweet were the days of his juvenile 

tricks, 
Though the prairie of youth had so many 

"big licks." 

By the side of yon river he weeps and 

he slumps, 
The boots fill with water, as if they were 

pumps, 



36 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



Till, sated with rapture, he steals to his 

bed, 
With a glow in his heart and a cold in 

his head. 

'T.is past, — he is dreaming, — I see him 

again ; 
The ledger returns as by legerdemain ; • 
His neckcloth is damp with an easterly 

flaw, 
And he holds in his fingers an omnibus 

straw. 

He dreams the chill gust is a blossomy 

gale, 
That the straw is a rose from his dear 

native vale ; 
And murmurs, unconscious of space and 

of time, 
"A 1. Extra super. Ah, isn't it 

prime ! " 

what are the prizes we perish to win 
To the first little " shiner " we caught 

with a pin ! 
No soil upon earth is so dear to our eyes 
As the soil we first stirred in terrestrial 

pies ! 

Then come from all parties, and parts, 
to our feast ; 

Though not at the " Astor," we '11 give 
you at least 

A bite at an apple, a seat on the grass* 

And the best of old — water — at noth- 
ing a glass. 

NUX POSTCOENATICA. 

1 WAS sitting with my microscope, upon 

my parlor rug, 
With a very heavy quarto and a very 

lively bug ; 
The true bug had been organized with 

only two antennae, 
But the humbug in the copperplate would 

have them twice as many. 



And I thought, like Dr. Faustus, of the 

emptiness of art, 
How we take a fragment for the whole, 

and call the whole a part, 
When I heard a heavy footstep that was 

loud enough for two, 
And a man of forty entered, exclaiming, 

— " How d'ye do ? " 

He was not a ghost, my visitor, but solid 

flesh and bone ; 
He wore a Palo Alto hat, his weight was 

twenty stone ; 
(It 's odd how hats expand their brims 

as riper years invade, 
As if when life had reached its noon, it 

wanted them for shade !) 

I lost my focus, — dropped my book, — 
the bug, who was a flea, 

At once exploded, and commenced ex- 
periments on me. 

They have a certain heartiness that fre- 
quently appalls, — 

Those mediaeval gentlemen in semilunar 
smalls ! 

" My boy," he said, — (colloquial ways, 

— the vast, broad-hatted man,) — 
" Come dine with us on Thursday next, 

— you must, you know you can-, 
We 're going to have a roaring time, with 

lots of fun and noise, 
Distinguished guests, et cetera, the 

Judge, and all the boys." 

Not so, — I said, — my temporal bones 

are showing pretty clear. 
It's time to stop, — just look and see 

that hair above this ear ; 
My golden days are more than spent, — 

— and, what is very strange, 

If these are real silver hairs, I 'm getting 
lots of change. 

Besides — my prospects — don't you 
know that people won't employ 



NUX POSTCCENATTCA. 



37 



A man that wrongs his manliness by- 
laughing like a boy ? 

And suspect the azure blossom that un- 
folds upon a shoot, 

As if wisdom's old potato could not 
flourish at its root ? 

It 's a very fine reflection, when you 're 

etching out a smile 
On a copperplate of faces that would 

stretch at least a mile, 
That, what with sneers from enemies, 

and cheapening shrugs of friends, 
It will cost you all the earnings that a 

month of labor lends ! 

It 's a vastly pleasing prospect, when 

you 're screwing out a laugh, 
That your very next year's income is 

diminished by a half, 
And a little boy trips barefoot that 

Pegasus may go, 
And the baby's milk is watered that 

your Helicon may flow ! 

No ; — the joke has been a good one, — 

but I 'm getting fond of quiet, 
And I don't like deviations from my 

customary diet ; 
So I think I will not go with you to 

hear the toasts and speeches, 
But stick to old Montgomery Place, and 

have some pig and peaches. 

The fat man answered : — Shut your 

mouth, and hear the genuine creed ; 
The true essentials of a feast are only 

fun and feed ; 
The force that wheels the planets round 

delights in spinning tops, 
And that young earthquake t' other day 

was great at shaking props. 

I tell you what, philosopher, if all the 
longest heads 



That ever knocked their sinciputs in 

stretching on their beds 
"Were round one great mahogany, I 'd 

beat those fine old folks 
With twenty dishes, twenty fools, and 

twenty clever jokes ! 

Why, if Columbus should be there, the 

company would beg 
He 'd show that little trick of his of 

balancing the egg ! 
Milton to Stilton would give in, and 

Solomon to Salmon, 
And Roger Bacon be a bore, and Francis 

Bacon gammon ! 

And as for all the "patronage" of all 

the clowns and boors 
That squint their little narrow eyes at 

any freak of 3 T ours, 
Do leave them to your prosier friends, 

— such fellows ought to die 
When rhubarb is so very scarce and 

ipecac so high ! 

And so I come, — like Lochinvar, to 
tread a single measure, 

To purchase with a loaf of bread a sugar- 
plum of pleasure, 

To enter for the cup of glass that 's run 
for after dinner, 

Which yields a single sparkling draught 
then breaks and cuts the winner^ 

Ah, that 's the way delusion comes, — 
a glass of old Madeira, 

A pair of visual diaphragms revolved by 
Jane or Sarah, 

And down go vows and promises with- 
out the slightest question 

If eating words won't compromise the 
organs of digestion • 

And yet, among my native shades, be- 
side my nursing mother, 



38 



ADDITIONAL POEMS, 



Where every stranger seems a friend, 
and every friend a brother, 

I feel the old convivial glow (unaided) 
o'er me stealing, — 

The warm, champagny, old-particular, 
brandy-punchy feeling. 

We're all alike ; — Vesuvius flings the 

scoriae from his fountain, 
But down they come in volleying rain 

back to the burning mountain ; 
We leave, like those volcanic stones, our 

precious Alma Mater, 
But will keep dropping in again to see 

the dear old crater. 

VERSES FOR AFTER DINNER. 

$ B K SOCIETY, 1844. 

I WAS thinking last night, as I sat in 
the cars, 

With the charmingest prospect of cin- 
ders and stars, 

Next Thursday is — bless me ! — how 
hard it will be, 

If that cannibal president calls upon me ! 

There is nothing on earth that he will 

not devour, 
From a tutor in seed to a freshman in 

flower ; 
No sage is too gray, and no youth is too 

green, 
And you can't be too plump, though you 

're never too lean. 

While others enlarge on the boiled and 

the roast, 
He serves a raw clergyman up with a 

toast, 
Or catches some doctor, quite tender and 

young, 
And basely insists on a bit of his tongue. 

Poor victim, prepared for his classical 
spit, 



With a stuffing of praise, and a basting 
of wit, 

You may twitch at your collar, and wrin- 
kle your brow, 

But you 're up on your legs, and you 're 
in for it now. 

think of your friends, — they are wait- 
ing to hear 

Those jokes that are thought so remark- 
ably queer ; 

And all the Jack Homers of metrical 
buns 

Are prying and fingering to pick out the 
puns. 

Those thoughts which, like chickens, 

will always thrive best 
When reared by the heat of the natural 

nest, 
Will perish if hatched from their embryo 

dream 
In the mist and the glow of convivial 

steam. 

pardon me, then, if I meekly retire, 
With a very small flash of ethereal fire ; 
No rubbing will kindle your Lucifer 

match, 
If the fiz does not follow the primitive 
scratch. 

Dear friends, who are listening so sweetly 

the while, 
With your lips double-reefed in a snug 

little smile, — 

1 leave you two fables, both drawn fro 

the deep, — 
The shells you can drop, but the peai 

you may keep. 

# * * 

The fish called the Flounder, perhaps 

you may know, 
Has one side for use and another foi 

show ; 



A MODEST REQUEST. 



39 



One side for the public, a delicate brown, 
And one that is white, which he always 
keeps down. 

A very young flounder, the flattest of 

flats, 
(And they 're none of them thicker than 

opera hats,) 
Was speaking more freely than charity 

taught 
Of a friend and relation that just had 

been caught. 

"My ! what an exposure! just see what 

a sight ! 
I blush for my race, — he is showing his 

white ! 
Such spinning and wriggling, —why, 

what does he wish ? 
How painfully small to respectable fish ! " 

Then said an old Sculpin, — " My free- 
dom excuse, 

But you 're playing the cobbler with holes 
in your shoes ; 

Your brown side is up, — but just wait 
till you 're tried 

And you '11 find that all flounders are 

white on one side." 
* * * 

There 's a slice near the Pickerel's pec- 
toral fins, 

Where the thorax leaves off and the 
venter begins ; 

Which his brother, survivor of fish-hooks 
and lines, 

Though fond of his family, never declines. 

He loves his relations ; he feels they '11 
be missed ; 

But that one little titbit he cannot re- 
sist ; 

So your bait may be swallowed, no mat- 
ter how fast, 

For you catch your nest fish with a piece 
of the last. 



And thus, survivor, whose merciless 
fate 

Is to take the next hook with the presi- 
dent's bait, 

You are lost while you snatch from the 
end of his line 

The morsel he rent from this bosom of 
mine ! 



A MODEST REQUEST 

complied with after the dinner at 
president Everett's inauguration. 

Scene, — a back parlor in a certain 
square, 

Or court, or lane, — in short, no matter 
where ; 

Time, — early morning, dear to simple 
souls 

Who love its sunshine, and its fresh- 
baked rolls ; 

Persons, - take pity on this telltale 
blush, 

That, like the ^thiop, whispers, "Hush, 
hush ! " 

Delightful scene ! where smiling comfort 

broods, 
Nor business frets, nor anxious care in- 
trudes ; 
si sic omnia ! were it ever so ! 
But what is stable in this world below ? 
Medio e fonte, — Virtue has her faults, — 
The clearest fountains taste of Epsom 

salts ; 
We snatch the cup and lift to drain it 

dry, — 
Its central dimple holds a drowning fly! 
Strong is the pine by Maine's ambrosial 

streams, 
But stronger augers pierce its thickest 

beams ; 
No iron gate, no spiked and panelled 

door, 



40 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



Can keep out death, the postman, or the 
bore ; — 

for a world where peace and silence 

reign, 

And blunted dulness terebrates in vain ! 

— The door-bell jingles, — enter Rich- 
ard Fox, 

And takes this letter froLi his leathern 
box. 

"Dear Sir, 

In writing on a former day, 
One little matter I forgot to say ; 

1 now inform you in a single line, 

On Thursday next our purpose is to dine. 

The act of feeding, as you understand, 

Is but a fraction of the work in hand ; 

Its nobler half is that ethereal meat 

The papers call ' the intellectual treat '; 

Songs, speeches, toasts, around the fes- 
tive board 

Drowned in the juice the College pumps 
afford ; 

For only water flanks our knives and 
forks, 

So, sink or float, we swim without the 
corks. 

Yours is the art, by native genius taught, 

To clothe in eloquence the naked thought ; 

Yours is the skill its music to prolong 

Through the sweet effluence of melliflu- 
ous song ; 

Yours the quaint trick to cram the pithy 
line 

That cracks so crisply over bubbling wine ; 

And since success your various gifts at- 
tends, 

We — that is, I and all your numerous 
friends — 

Expect from you — your single self a 
host — 

A speech, a song, excuse me, and a toast ; 

Nay, not to haggle on so small a claim, 

A few of each, or several of the same. 
(Signed), Yours, most truly, " 



No ! my sight must fail, — < 
If that ain't Judas on the largest scale ! 

"Well, this is modest; — nothing else 

than that ? 
My coat ? my boots ? my pantaloons ? 

my hat ? 
My stick ? my gloves ? as well as all 

my wits, 
Learning and linen, — everything that 

fits! 

Jack, said my lady, is it grog you '11 try, 
Or punch, or toddy, if perhaps you 're 

dry? 
Ah, said the sailor, though I can't re- 
fuse, 
You know, my lady, 't ain't for me to 

choose ; — 
I '11 take the grog to finish off my lunch, 
And drink the toddy while you mix the 
punch. 



The Speech. (The speaker, rising to 

be seen, 
Looks very red, because so very green.) 
I rise — I rise — with unaffected fear, 
(Louder ! — speak louder ! — who the 

deuce can hear ? ) 
I rise — I said — with undisguised dis- 
may— 
— Such are my feelings as I rise, I say ! 
Quite unprepared to face this learned 

throng, 
Already gorged with eloquence and song; 
Around my view are ranged on either 

hand 
The genius, wisdom, virtue, of the land ; 
" Hands that the. rod of empire might 

have swayed " 
Close at my elbow stir their lemonade ; 
"Would you like Homer learn to write 

and speak, 
That bench is groaning with its weight 

of Greek ; 



A MODEST REQUEST. 



41 



Behold the naturalist who in his teens 
Found six new species in a dish of greens; 
And lo, the master in a statelier walk, 
Whose annual ciphering takes a ton of 

chalk ; 
And there the linguist, who by common 

roots 
Thro' all their nurseries tracks old Noah's 

shoots, — 
How Shem's proud children reared the 

Assyrian piles, 
While Ham's were scattered through the 

Sandwich Isles ! 

— Fired at the thought of all the pres- 
ent shows, 

My kindling fancy down the future 
flow r s : 

I see the glory of the coming days 

O'er Time's horizon shoot its streaming 
rays ; 

Near and more near the radiant morning 
draws 

In living lustre (rapturous applause) ; 

From east to west the blazing heralds run, 

Loosed from the chariot of the ascend- 
ing sun, 

Through the long vista of uncounted 
years 

In cloudless splendor (three tremendous 
cheers). 

My eye prophetic, as the depths unfold, 

Sees a new advent of the age of gold ; 

While o'er the scene new generations 
press, 

New heroes rise the coming time to 
bless, — 

Not such as Homer's, who, we read in 
Pope, 

Dined without forks and never neard of 
soap, — 

Not such as May to Marlborough Chapel 
brings, 

Lean, hungry, savage, anti-every things, 



Copies of Luther in the pasteboard 
style, — 

But genuine articles, — the true Carlyle ; 

While far on high the blazing orb shall 
shed 

Its central light on Harvard's holy head, 

And Learning's ensigns ever float un- 
furled 

Here in the focus of the new-born world '. 

The speaker stops, and, trampling down 

the pause, 
Roars through the hall the thunder of 

applause, 
One stormy gust of long-suspended Ahs ! 
One whirlwind chaos of insane hurrahs J 



The Song. But this demands a briefer 

line, — 
A shorter muse, and not the old long 

Nine ; — 
Long metre answers for a common song, 
Though common metre does not answer 

long. 

She came beneath the forest dome 

To seek its peaceful shade, 
An exile from her ancient home, — 

A poor, forsaken maid ; 
No banner, flaunting high above, 

No blazoned cross, she bore ; 
One holy book of light and love 

Was all her worldly store. 

The dark brown shadows passed away, 

And wider spread the green, 
And, where the savage used to stray, 

The rising mart was seen ; 
So, when the laden winds had brought 

Their showers of golden rain, 
Her lap some precious gleanings caught^ 

Like Ruth's amid the grain. 

But wrath soon gathered uncontrolled. 
Among the baser churls, 



42 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



To see her ankles red with gold, 
Her forehead white with pearls ; 

" Who gave to thee the glittering bands 
That lace thine azure veins ? 

Who bade thee lift those snow-white 
hands 
We bound in gilded chains ? " 

" These are the gems my children gave," 

The stately dame replied ; 
" The wise, the gentle, and the brave, 

I nurtured at my side ; 
If envy still your bosom stings, 

Take back their rims of gold ; 
My sons will melt their wedding-rings, 

And give a hundred-fold ! " 



The Toast. tell me, ye who thought- 
less ask 

Exhausted nature for a threefold task, 

In wit or pathos if one share remains, 

A safe investment for an ounce of brains ? 

Hard is the job to launch the desperate 
pun, 

A pun-job dangerous as the Indian one. 

Turned by the current of some stronger 
wit 

Back from the object that you mean to 
hit, 

Like the strange missile which the Aus- 
tralian throws, 

Your verbal boomerang slaps you on the 
nose. 

One vague inflection spoils the whole 
with doubt, 

One trivial letter ruins all, left out ; 

A knot can choke a felon into clay, 

A not will save him, spelt without the k ; 

The smallest word has some unguarded 
spot, 

And danger lurks in i without a dot. 

Thus great Achilles, who had shown his 
seal 



In healing wounds, died of a wounded 
heel; 

Unhappy chief, who, when in childhood 
doused, 

Had saved his bacon, had his feet been 
soused ! 

Accursed heel that killed a hero stout ! 

0, had your mother known that you 
were out, 

Death had not entered at the trifling 
part 

That still defies the small chirurgeon's 
art 

With corns and bunions, — not the glo- 
rious John, 

Who wrote the book we all have pon- 
dered on, — 

But other bunions, bound in fleecy hose, 

To " Pilgrim's Progress " unrelenting 
foes ! 

A health, unmingled with the reveller's 
wine, 

To him whose title is indeed divine ; 

Truth's sleepless watchman on her mid- 
night tower, 

Whose lamp burns brightest when the 
tempests lower. 

who can tell with what a leaden flight 

Drag the long watches of his weary 
night, 

While at his feet the hoarse and blind- 
ing gale 

Strews the torn wreck and bursts the 
fragile sail, 

When stars have faded, when the wave 
is dark, 

When rocks and sands embrace the 
foundering bark, 

And still he pleads with unavailing cry, 

Behold the light, wanderer, look ox 
die! 

A heaHh, fair Themis! Would the 
enchanted vine 



THE STETHOSCOPE SONG. 



43 



Wreathed its green tendrils round this 

cup of thine ; 
If Learning's radiance fill thy modern 

court, 
Its glorious sunshine streams through 

Blackstone's port ! 
Lawyers are thirsty, and their clients too, 
Witness at least, if memory serve me 

true, 
Those old tribunals, famed for dusty 

suits, 
Where men sought justice ere they 

brushed their boots ; — 
And what can match, to solve a learned 

doubt, 
The warmth within that comes from 

"cold without"? 

Health to the art whose glory is to give 
The crowning boon that makes it life to 

live. 
Ask not her home ; — the rock where 

nature flings 
Her arctic lichen, last of living things, 
The gardens, fragrant with the orient's 

balm, 
From the low jasmine to the star-like 

palm, 
Hail her as mistress o'er the distant 

waves, 
And yield their tribute to her wandering 

slaves. 
Wherever, moistening the ungrateful 

soil, 
The tear of suffering tracks the path of 

toil, 
There, in the anguish of his fevered 

hours, 
Her gracious finger points to healing 

flowers ; 
Where the lost felon steals away to die, 
Her soft hand waves before his closing 

eye; 
Where hunted misery finds his darkest 

lair, 



The midnight taper shows her kneeling 

there ! 
Virtue, — the guide that men and 

nations own ; 
And Law, — the bulwark that protects 

her throne ; 
And Health, — to all its happiest 

charm that lends ; 
These and their servants, man's untiring 

friends ; 
Pour the bright lymph that Heaven itself 

lets fall, — 
In one fair bumper let us toast them all ; 



THE STETHOSCOPE SONG. 

A PROFESSIONAL BALLAD. 

There was a young man in Boston town, 
He bought him a Stethoscope nice 
and new, 
All mounted and finished and polished 
down, 
With an ivory cap and a stopper too. 

It happened a spider within did crawl, 
And spun him a web of ample size, 

Wherein there chanced one day to fall 
A couple of very imprudent flies. 

The first was a bottle-fly, big and blue, 
The second was smaller, and thin and 
long; 

So there was a concert between the two, 
Like an octave flute and a tavern gong. 

Now being from Paris but recently, 
This fine young man would show his 
skill; 

And so they gave him, his hand to fry, 
A hospital patient extremely ill. 

Some said that his liver was short of bile, 
And some that his heart was over size, 



44 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



While some kept arguing all the while 
He was crammed with tubercles up to 
his eyes. 

This fine young man then up stepped he, 
And all the doctors made a pause ; 

Said he, — The man must die, you see, 
By the fifty-seventh of Louis's laws. 

But since the case is a desperate one, 
To explore his chest it may be well ; 

For if he should die and it were not done, 
You know the autopsy would not tell. 

Then out his stethoscope he took, 
And on it placed his curious ear ; 

Mon Dieu/ said he, with a knowing look, 
"Why here is a sound that 's mighty 
queer ! 

The bourdonnement is very clear, — 
Amphoric buzzing, as I 'm alive ! 

Five doctors took their turn to hear ; 
Amphoric buzzing, said all the five. 

There 's empyema beyond a doubt ; 

We 11 plunge a trocar in his side. — 
The diagnosis was made out, 

They tapped the patient ; so he died. 

Now such as hate new-fashioned toys 
Began to look extremely glum ; 

They said that rattles were made for boys, 
And vowed that his buzzing was all a 
hum. 

There was an old lady had long been 
sick, 
And what was the matter none did 
know : 
Her pulse was slow, though her tongue 
was quick ; 
To her this knowing youth must go. 

So there the nice old lady sat, 
With phials and boxes all in a row ; 



She asked the young doctor what he 
was at, 
To thump her and tumble her ruffles so. 

Now, when the stethoscope came out, 
The flies began to buzz and whiz ; — 

ho ! the matter is clear, no doubt ; 
An aneurism there plainly is. 

The bruit de rdpe and the bruit de scie 
And the bruit de diable are all com- 
bined ; 

How happy Bouillaud would be, 
If he a case like this could find ! 

Now, when the neighboring doctors 
found 

A case so rare had been descried, 
They every day her ribs did pound 

In squads of twenty ; so she died. 

Then six young damsels, slight and frail, 
Received this kind young doctor's 
cares ; 
They all were getting slim and pale, 
And short of breath on mounting 
stairs. 

They all made rhymes with "sighs" and 
"skies," " 
And loathed their puddings and but- 
tered rolls, 
And dieted, much to their friends' sur- 
prise, 
On pickles and pencils and chalk and 
coals. 

So fast their little hearts did bound, 
The frightened insects buzzed the 
more ; 

So over all their chests he found 
The rale sifflant, and the rale sonore. 

He shook his head ; — there 's grave 
disease, — 
I greatly fear you all must die ; 



EXTRACTS FROM A MEDICAL POEM. 



45 



A slight post-mortem, if you please, 
Surviving friends would gratify. 

The six young damsels wept aloud, 
Which so prevailed on six young men, 

That each his honest love avowed, 
"Whereat they all got well again. 

This poor young man was all aghast ; 

The price of stethoscopes came down ; 
And so he was reduced at last 

To practise in a country town. 

The doctors being very sore, 
A stethoscope they did devise, 

That had a rammer to clear the bore, 
With a knob at the end to kill the flies. 

Now use your ears, all you that can, 
But don't forget to mind your eyes, 

Or you may be cheated, like this young 
man, 
By a couple of silly, abnormal flies. 



EXTRACTS FROM A MEDICAL POEM. 

THE STABILITY OF SCIENCE. 

The feeble sea-birds, blinded in the 
storms, 
On some tall lighthouse dash their little 

forms, 
And the rude granite scatters for their 

pains 
Those small deposits that were meant for 

brains. 
Yet the proud fabric in the morning's sun 
Stands all unconscious of the mischief 

done ; 
Still the red beacon pours its evening rays 
For the lost pilot with as full a blaze, 
Nay, shines, all radiance, o'er the scat- 
tered fleet 
Of gulls and boobies brainless at its feet. 
I tell their fate, though courtesy dis- 
claims 



To call our kind by such ungentle names ; 
Yet, if your rashness bid you vainly dare, 
Think of their doom, ye simple, and 

beware ! 
See where aloft its hoary forehead rears 
The towering pride of twice a thousand 

years ! 
Far, far below the vast incumbent pile 
Sleeps the gray rock from art's iEgean 

isle ; 
Its massive courses, circling as they rise, 
Swell from the waves to mingle with the 

skies ; 
There every quarry lends its marble spoil, 
And clustering ages blend their common 

toil ; 
The Greek, the Roman, reared its an- 
cient walls, 
The silent Arab arched its mystic halls ; 
In that fair niche, by countless billows 

laved, 
Trace the deep lines that Sydenham en- 
graved ; 
On yon broad front that breasts the 

changing swell, 
Mark where the ponderous sledge of 

Hunter fell ; 
By that square buttress look where 

Louis stands, 
The stone yet warm from his uplifted 

hands ; "* 
And say, Science, shall thy life-blood 

freeze, 
When fluttering folly flaps on walls like 

these ? 

A PORTRAIT. 

Thoughtful in youth, but not aus- 
tere in age ; 

Calm, but not cold, and cheerful though 
a sage ; 

Too true to flatter, and too kind to 
sneer, 

And only just when seemingly severe ; 

So gently blending courtesy and art, 



46 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



That wisdom's lips seemed borrowing 

friendship's heart. 
Taught by the sorrows that his age had 

known 
In others' trials to forget his own, 
As hour by hour his lengthened day de- 
clined, 
A sweeter radiance lingered o'er his 

mind. 
Cold were the lips that spoke his early 

praise, 
And hushed the voices of his morning 

days, 
Yet the same accents dwelt on every 

tongue, 
Ana love renewing kept him ever young. 

A SENTIMENT. 

"0 tffos /Spaxtfs, — life is but a song ; 

H r^x vr l pawn, — art is wondrous long ; 

Yet to the wise her paths are ever fair, 

Ana Patience smiles, though Genius may 
despair. 

Give us but knowledge, though by slow 
degrees, 

And blend our toil with moments bright 
as these ; 

I -et Friendship's accents cheer our doubt- 
ful way, 

A.nd Love's pure planet lend its guiding 
ray,— 

Cur tardy Art shall wear an angel's wings, 

and life shall lengthen with the joy it 
brings ! 



THE PARTING WORD. 

I MUST leave thee, lady sweet ! 
Months shall waste before we meet ; 
Winds are fair, and sails are spread, 
Anchors leave their ocean bed ; 
Ere this shining day grow dark, 
Skies shall gird my shoreless bark ; 



Through thy tears, lady mine. 
Read thy lover's parting line. 

When the first sad sun shall set, 
Thou shalt tear thy locks of jet ; 
When the morning star shall rise, 
Thou shalt wake with weeping eyes | 
When the second sun goes down, 
Thou more tranquil shalt be grown, 
Taught too well that wild despair 
Dims thine eyes, and spoils thy hair. 

All the first unquiet week 
Thou shalt wear a smileless cheek ; 
In the first month's second half 
Thou shalt once attempt to laugh ; 
Then in Pickwick thou shalt dip, 
Slightly puckering round the lip, 
Till at last, in sorrow's spite, 
Samuel makes thee laugh outright. 

While the first seven mornings last, 
Round thy chamber bolted fast, 
Many a youth shall fume and pout, 
" Hang the girl, she 's always out ! " 
While the second week goes round, 
Vainly shall they ring and pound ; 
When the third week shall begin, 
" Martha, let the creature in." 

Now once more the flattering throng 
Round thee flock with smile and song, 
But thy lips, unweaned as yet, 
Lisp, " 0, how can I forget ! " 
Men and devils both contrive 
Traps for catching girls alive ; 
Eve was duped, and Helen kissed, — 
How, how can you resist ? 

First be careful of your fan, 
Trust it not to youth or man ; 
Love has filled a pirate's sail 
Often with its perfumed gale. 
Mind your kerchief most of all, 
Fingers touch when kerchieft fall ; 



A SONG OF OTHER DAYS. 



47 



Shorter ell than mercers clip 
Is the space from hand to lip. 

Trust not such as talk in tropes, 
Full of pistols, daggers, ropes ; 
All the hemp that Russia bears 
Scarce would answer lovers' prayers ; 
Never thread was spun so line, 
Never spider stretched the line, 
Would not hold the lovers true 
That would really swing for you. 

Fiercely some shall storm and swear, 
Beating breasts in black despair ; 
Others murmur with a sigh, 
You must melt, or they will die ; 
Painted words on empty lies, 
Grubs with wings like butterflies ; 
Let them die, and welcome, too ; 
Pray what better could they do ? 

Fare thee well, if years efface 
From thy heart love's burning trace, 
Keep, keep that hallowed seat 
From the tread of vulgar feet ; 
If the blue lips of the sea 
Wait with icy kiss for me, 
Let not thine forget the vow, 
Sealed how often, Love, as now. 

A SONG OF OTHER DAYS- 

As o'er the glacier's frozen sheet 
Breathes soft the Alpine rose, 
So, through life's desert springing sweet, 

The flower of friendship grows ; 
And as, where'er the roses grow, 

Some rain or dew descends, 
T is nature's law that wine should flow 
To wet the lips of friends. 

Then once again, before we part, 

My empty glass shall ring ; 
And he that has the warmest heart 
Shall loudest laugh and sing. 

They say we were not born to eat ; 
But gray-haired sages think 



It means, — Be moderate in your meat, 

And partly live to drink ; 
For baser tribes the rivers flow 

That know not wine or song ; 
Man wants but little drink below, 

But wants that little strong. 
Then once again, etc. 

If one bright drop is like the gem 

That decks a monarch's crown, 
One goblet holds a diadem 

Of rubies melted down ! 
A fig for Csesar's blazing brow, 

But, like the Egyptian queen, 
Bid each dissolving jewel glow 

My thirsty lips between. 
Then once again, etc. 

The Grecian's mound, the Roman's urn, 

Are silent when we call, 
Yet still the purple grapes return 

To cluster on the wall ; 
It was a bright Immortal's head 

They circled with the vine, 
And o'er their best and bravest dead 

They poured the dark-red wine. 
Then once again, etc. 

Methinks o'er every sparkling glass 

Young Eros waves his wings, 
And echoes o'er its dimples pass 

From dead Anacreon's strings ; 
And, tossing round its beaded brim 

Their locks of floating gold, 
With bacchant dance and choral hymn 

Return the nymphs of old. 
Then once again, etc. 

A welcome then to joy and mirth, 

From hearts as fresh as ours, 
To scatter o'er the dust of earth 

Their sweetly mingled flowers ; 
'T is Wisdom's self the cup that fills 

In spite of Folly's frown, 
And Nature, from her vine-clad hills, 

That rains her life-blood down 1 



48 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



Then once again, before we part, 
My empty glass shall ring ; 

And he that has the warmest heart 
Shall loudest laugh and sing. 

SONG. 

FOR A TEMPERANCE DINNER TO WHICH 
LADIES WERE INVITED (NEW YORK 
MERCANTILE LIBRARY ASSOCIATION, 
NOV., 1842). 

A health to dear woman ! She bids us 
untwine, 

From the cup it encircles, the fast-cling- 
ing vine ; 

But her cheek in its crystal with pleasure 
will glow, 

And mirror its bloom in the bright wave 
below. 

A health to sweet woman ! The days 
are no more 

When she watched for her lord till the 
revel was o'er, 

And smoothed the white pillow, and 
blushed when he came, 

As she pressed her cold lips on his fore- 
head of flame. 

Alas for the loved one ! too spotless and 

fair 
The joys of his banquet to chasten and 

share ; 
Her eye lost its light that his goblet 

might shine, 
And the rose of her cheek was dissolved 

in his wine. 

Joy smiles in the fountain, health flows 
in the rills, 

As their ribbons of silver unwind from 
the hills ; 

They breathe not the mist of the baccha- 
nal's dream, 

But the lilies of innocence float on their 
stream. 



Then a health and a welcome to woman 

once more ! 
She brings us a passport that laughs at 

our door ; 
It is written on crimson, — its letters 

are pearls, — 
It is countersigned Nature. — So, room 

for the Girls ! 



A SENTIMENT. 

The pledge of Friendship ! it is still 

divine, 
Though watery floods have quenched its 

burning wine ; 
Whatever vase the sacred drops may 

hold, 
The gourd, the shell, the cup of beaten 

gold, 
Around its brim the hand of Nature 

throws 
A garland sweeter than the banquet's 

rose. 
Bright are the blushes of the vine- 
wreathed bowl, 
Warm with the sunshine of Anacreon's 

soul, 
But dearer memories gild the tasteless 

wave 
That fainting Sidney perished as he gave. 
'Tis the heart's current lends the cup 

its glow, 
Whate'er the fountain whence the 

draught may flow, — 
The diamond dew - drops sparkling 

through the §and, 
Scooped by the Arab in his sunburnt 

hand, • 

Or the dark streamlet oozing from the 

snow, 
Where creep and crouch the shuddering 

Esquimaux ; — 
Ay, in the stream that, ere again we 

meet, 



A RHYMED LESSON. 



49 



Shall burst the pavement, glistening at 

our feet, 
And, stealing silent from its leafy 

hills, 
Thread all our alleys with its thousand 

rills, — 
In each pale draught if generous feeling 

blend, 
And o'er the goblet friend shall smile on 

friend, 
Even cold Cochituate every heart shall 

warm, 
And genial Nature still defy reform ! 



A RHYMED LESSON. 1 
(URANIA.) 

Yes, dear Enchantress, — wandering 

far and long, 
In realms unperfumed by the breath of 

song, 
Where flowers ill-flavored shed their 

sweets around, 
And bitterest roots invade the ungenial 

ground, 
Whose gems are crystals from the Epsom 

mine, 
Whose vineyards flow with antimonial 

wine, 
Whose gates admit no mirthful feature 

in, 
Save one gaunt mocker, the Sardonic 

grin, 
Whose pangs are real, not the woes of 

rhyme 
That blue-eyed misses warble out of 

time ; — 
Truant, not recreant to thy sacred claim, 
Older by reckoning, but in heart the 

same, 

1 This poem was delivered before the Boston 
Mercantile Library Association, October 14, 
1846. 



Freed for a moment from the chains of 

toil, 
I tread once more thy consecrated soil ; 
Here at thy feet my old allegiance own, 
Thy subject still, and loyal to thy 

throne ! 



My dazzled glance explores the crowded 

hall; 
Alas, how vain to hope the smiles of all ! 
I know my audience. All the gay and 

young 
Love the light antics of a playful tongue ; 
And these, remembering some expansive 

line 
My lips let loose among the nuts and 

wine, 
Are all impatience till the opening pun 
Proclaims the witty shamfight is begun. 
Two fifths at least, if not the total half, 
Have come infuriate for an earthquake 

laugh ; 
I know full well what alderman has 

tied 
His red bandanna tight about his side ; 
I see the mother, who, aware that 

boys 
Perform their laughter with superfluous 

noise, 
Beside her kerchief, brought an extra 

one 
To stop the explosions of her bursting 

son ; 
I know a tailor, once a friend of mine, 
Expects great doings in the button 

line ; — 
For mirth's concussions rip the outward 

case, 
And plant the stitches in a tenderer 

place. 
I know my audience ; — these shall have 

their due ; 
A smile awaits them ere my song is 

through ! 



50 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



I know myself. Not servile for ap- 
plause, 

My Muse permits no deprecating clause ; 

Modest or vain, she will not be denied 

One bold confession due to honest pride ; 

And well she knows the drooping veil 
of song 

Shall save her boldness from the cavil- 
ler's wrong. 

Her sweeter voice the Heavenly Maid 
imparts 

To tell the secrets of our aching hearts ; 

For this, a suppliant, captive, prostrate, 
bound, 

She kneels imploring at the feet of 
sound ; 

For this, convulsed in thought's mater- 
nal pains, 

She loads her arms with rhyme's re- 
sounding chains ; 

Faint though the music of her fetters 
be, 

It lends one charm ; — her lips are ever 
free ! 

Think not I come, in manhood's fiery 
noon, 

To steal his laurels from the stage buf- 
foon ; 

His sword of lath the harlequin may 
wield ; 

Behold the star upon my lifted shield ! 

Though the just critic pass my humble 
name, 

And sweeter lips have drained the cup 
of fame, 

While my gay stanza pleased the ban- 
quet's lords, 

The soul within was tuned to deeper 
chords ! 

Say, shall my arms, in other conflicts 
taught 

To swing aloft the ponderous mace of 
thought, 

Lift, in obedience to a school-girl's law, 



Mirth's tinsel wand or laughter's tick- 
ling straw ? 

Say, shall I wound with satire's rankling 
spear 

The pure, warm hearts that bid me wel- 
come here ? 

No ! while I wander through the land 
of dreams, 

To strive with great and play with tri- 
fling themes, 

Let some kind meaning fill the varied 
line ; 

You have your judgment ; will you 
trust to mine ? 



Between two breaths what crowded 
mysteries lie, — 

The first short gasp, the last and long- 
drawn sigh ! 

Like phantoms painted on the magic 
slide, 

Forth from the darkness of the past we 
glide, 

As living shadows for a moment seen 

In airy pageant on the eternal screen, 

Traced by a ray from one unchanging 
flame, 

Then seek the dust and stillness whence 
we came. 

But whence and why, our trembling 
souls inquire, 
Caught these dim visions their awaken- 
ing fire ? 

who forgets when first the piercing 

thought 
Through childhood's musings found its 
way unsought ? 

1 AM ; — I live. The mystery and the 

fear 
"When the dread question, What has 

BROUGHT ME HERE ? 

Burst through life's twilight, as before 
the sun 



A RHYMED LESSON. 



51 



Roll the deep thunders of the morning 
gun! 

Are angel faces, silent and serene, 
Bent on the conflicts of this little scene, 
Whose dream-like efforts, whose unreal 

strife, 
Are but the preludes to a larger life ? 

Or does life's summer see the end of 
all, 

These leaves of being mouldering as they 
fall, 

As the old poet vaguely used to deem, 

As Wesley questioned in his youthful 
dream ? 

could such mockery reach our souls 
indeed, 

Give back the Pharaohs' or the Athe- 
nian's creed ; 

Better than this a Heaven of man's 
device, — 

The Indian's sports, the Moslem's para- 
dise ! 

Or is our being's only end and aim 
To add new glories to our Maker's name, 
As the poor insect, shrivelling in the 

blaze, 
Lends a faint sparkle to its streaming 

rays? 
Does earth send upwards to the Eternal's 

ear 
The mingled discords of her jarring 

sphere 
To swell his anthem, while creation 

rings 
W'ith notes of anguish from its shattered 

strings ? 
Is it for this the immortal Artist means 
These conscious, throbbing, agonized 

machines ? 

Dark is the soul whose sullen creed 
can bind 



In chains like these the all-embracing 
Mind ; 

No ! two-faced bigot, thou dost ill re- 
prove 

The sensual, selfish, yet benignant Jove, 

And praise a tyrant throned in lonely 
pride, 

Who loves himself, and cares for naught 
beside ; 

Who gave thee, summoned from pri- 
meval night, 

A thousand laws, and not a single 
right, — 

A heart to feel, and quivering nerves to 
thrill, 

The sense of wrong, the death-defying 
will ; 

Who girt thy senses with this goodly 
frame, 

Its earthly glories and its orbs of flame, 

Not for thyself, unworthy of a thought, 

Poor helpless victim of a life unsought, 

But all for him, unchanging and su- 
preme, 

The heartless centre of thy frozen 
scheme ! 

Trust not the teacher with his lying 
scroll, 
Who tears the charter of thy shuddering 

soul ; 
The God of love, who gave the breath 

that warms 
All living dust in all its varied forms, 
Asks not the tribute of a world like this 
To fill the measure of his perfect bliss. 
Though winged with life through all its 

radiant shores, 
Creation flowed with unexhausted stores 
Cherub and seraph had not yet enjoyed ; 
For this he called thee from the quick- 
ening void ! 
Nor this alone ; a larger gift was thine, 
A mightier purpose swelled his vast de- 
sign ; 



52 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



Thought, — conscience, — will, — to make 

them all thine own, 
He rent a pillar from the eternal throne ! 

Made in his image, thou must nobly 

dare 
The thorny crown of sovereignty to 

share. 
With eye uplifted, it is thine to view, 
From thine own centre, Heaven's o'er- 

arching blue ; 
So round thy heart a beaming circle lies 
No fiend can blot, no hypocrite disguise ; 
From all its orbs one cheering voice is 

heard, 
Full to thine ear it bears the Father's 

word, 
Now, as in Eden where his first-born 

trod: 
" Seek thine own welfare, true to man 

and God ! " 
Think not too meanly of thy low es- 
tate ; 
Thou hast a choice ; to choose is to cre- 
ate ! 
Eemember whose the sacred lips that tell, 
Angels approve thee when thy choice is 

well ; 
Remember, One, a judge of righteous 

men, 
Swore to spare Sodom if she held but 

ten! 
Use well the freedom which thy Master 

gave, 
(Think'st thou that Heaven can tolerate 

a slave ?) 
And He who made thee to be just and 

true 
Will bless thee, love thee, — ay, respect 

thee too ! 

Nature has placed thee on a change- 
ful tide, 
To breast its waves, but not without a 



Yet, as the needle will forget its aim, 
Jarred by the fury of the electric flame, 
As the true current it will falsely feel, 
Warped from its axis by a freight of steel; 
So will thy conscience lose its balanced 

truth, 
If passion's lightning fall upon thy 

youth ; 
So the pure effluence quit its sacred 

hold, 
Girt round too deeply with magnetic 
gold. 
Go to yon tower, where busy science 
plies 
Her vast antennae, feeling through the 

skies ; 
That little vernier on whose slender lines 
The midnight taper trembles as it shines, 
A silent index, tracks the planets' march 
In all their wanderings through the ethe- 
real arch, 
Tells through the mist where dazzled 

Mercury burns, 
And marks the spot where Uranus re- 
turns. 
So, till by wrong or negligence effaced, 
The living index which thy Maker traced 
Eepeats the line each starry Virtue draws 
Through the wide circuit of creation's 

laws ; 
Still tracks unchanged the everlasting 

ray 
Where the dark shadows of temptation 

stray ; 
But, once defaced, forgets the orbs of 

light, 
And leaves thee wandering o'er the ex- 
panse of night. 

" What is thy creed ? " a hundred lips 
inquire ; 
"Thou seekest God beneath what Chris- 
tian spire ? " 
Nor ask they idly, for uncounted lies 
Float upward on the smoke of sacrifice j 



A EHYMED LESSON. 



53 



When man's first incense rose above the 

plain, 
Of earth's two altars one was built by 

Cain ! 
Uncursed by doubt, our earliest creed 

we take ; 
We love the precepts for the teacher's 

sake ; 
The simple lessons which the nursery 

taught 
Fell soft and stainless on the buds of 

thought, 
And the full blossom owes its fairest 

hue 
To those sweet tear-drops of affection's 

dew. 
Too oft the light that led our earlier 

hours 
Fades with the perfume of our cradle 

flowers ; 
The clear, cold question chills to frozen 

doubt ; 
Tired of beliefs, we dread to live with- 
out ; 
then, if Reason waver at thy side, 
Let humbler Memory be thy gentle 

guide; 
Go to thy birthplace, and, if faith was 

there, 
Repeat thy father's creed, thy mother's 

prayer ! 

Faith loves to lean on Time's destroy- 
ing arm, 

And age, like distance, lends a double 
charm ; 

In dim cathedrals, dark with vaulted 
gloom, 

What holy awe invests the saintly 
tomb! 

There pride will bow, and anxious care 
expand, 

And creeping avarice come with open 
hand ; 

The gay can weep, the impious can adore, 



From morn's first glimmerings on the 
chancel floor, 

Till dying sunset sheds his crimson 
stains 

Through the faint halos of the irised 
panes. 
Yet there are graves, whose rudely- 
shapen sod 

Bears the fresh footprints where the sex- 
ton trod ; 

Graves where the verdure has not dared 
to shoot, 

Where the chance wild-flower has not 
fixed its root, 

Whose slumbering tenants, dead without 
a name, 

The eternal record shall at length pro- 
claim 

Pure as the holiest in the long array 

Of hooded, mitred, or tiaraed clay ! 

Come, seek the air ; some pictures we 

may gain 
Whose passing shadows shall not be in 

vain ; 
Not from the scenes that crowd the 

stranger's soil, 
Not from our own amidst the stir of 

toil, 
But when the Sabbath brings its kind 

release, 
And Care lies slumbering on the lap of 

Peace. 

The air is hushed ; the street is holy 
ground ; 
Hark ! The sweet bells renew their wel- 
come sound ; 
As one by one awakes each silent tongue, 
It tells the turret whence its voice is 
flung. 

The Chapel, last of sublunary things 
That stirs our echoes with the name of 
Kings, 



54 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



Whose bell, just glistening from the font 
and forge, 

Rolled its proud requiem for the second 
George, 

Solemn and swelling, as of old it rang, 

Flings to the wind its deep, sonorous 
clang ; — 

The simpler pile, that, mindful of the 
hour 

"When Howe's artillery shook its half- 
built tower, 

"Wears on its bosom, as a bride might do, 

The iron breastpin which the " Rebels" 
threw, 

Wakes the sharp echoes with the quiv- 
ering thrill 

Of keen vibrations, tremulous and 
shrill ; — 

Aloft, suspended in the morning's fire, 

Crash the vast cymbals from the South- 
ern spire ; — 

The Giant, standing by the elm-clad 
green, 

His white lance lifted o'er the silent 
scene, 

"Whirling in air his brazen goblet round, 

Swings from its brim the swollen floods 
of sound ; — 

While, sad with memories of the olden 
time, 

Throbs from his tower the Northern 
Minstrel's chime, 

Faint, single tones, that spell their an- 
cient song, 

But tears still follow as they breathe 
along. 

Child of the soil, whom fortune sends 
to range 
Where man and nature, faith and cus- 
toms change, 
Borne in thy memory, each familiar tone 
Mourns on the winds that sigh in every 
zone. 



When Ceylon sweeps thee with her per- 
fumed breeze 

Through the warm billows of the Indian 
seas ; 

When — ship and shadow blended both 
in one — 

Flames o'er thy mast the equatorial sun, 

From sparkling midnight to refulgent 
noon 

Thy canvas swelling with the still mon- 
soon ; 

When through thy shrouds the wild tor- 
nado sings, 

And thy poor seabird folds her tattered 
wings, — 

Oft will delusion o'er thy senses steal, 

And airy echoes ring the Sabbath peal ! 

Then, dim with grateful tears, in long 
array 

Rise the fair town, the island-studded 
bay, 

Home, with its smiling board, its cheer- 
ing fire, 

The half-choked welcome of the expect- 
ing sire, 

The mother's kiss, and, still if aught re- 
main, 

Our whispering hearts shall aid the silent 
strain. — 
Ah, let the dreamer o'er the taffrail 
lean 

To muse unheeded, and to weep unseen ; 

Fear not the tropic's dews, the evening's 
chills, 

His heart lies warm among his triple 
hills ! 

Turned from her path by this deceit- 
ful gleam, 

My wayward fancy half forgets hei 
theme ; 

See through the streets that slumbered 
in repose 

The living current of devotion flows ; 

Its varied forms in one harmonious band, 



A RHYMED LESSON. 



55 



Age leading childhood by its dimpled 
hand, 

Want, in the robe whose faded edges 
fall 

To tell of rags beneath the tartan shawl, 

And wealth, in silks that, fluttering to 
appear, 

Lift the deep borders of the proud cash- 
mere. 

See, but glance briefly, sorrow-worn 

and pale, 
Those sunken cheeks beneath the widow's 

veil ; 
Alone she wanders where with him she 

trod, 
No arm to stay her, but she leans on 

God. 
"While other doublets deviate here and 

there, 
What secret handcuff binds that pretty 

pair? 
Compactest couple ! pressing side to 

side, — 
Ah, the white bonnet that reveals the 

bride ! 
By the white neckcloth, with its 

straitened tie, 
The sober hat, the Sabbath-speaking 

eye, 
Severe and smileless, he that runs may 

read 
The stern disciple of Geneva's creed ; 
Decent and slow, behold his solemn 

march ; 
Silent he enters through yon crowded 

arch. 
A livelier bearing of the outward 

man, 
The light-hued gloves, the undevout 

rattan, 
Now smartly raised or half-profanely 

twirled, — 
A bright, fresh twinkle from the week- 
day world, — 



Tell their plain story ; — yes, thine eyes 

behold 
A cheerful Christian from the liberal fold. 

Down the chill street that curves in 

gloomiest shade 
What marks betray yon solitary maid ? 
The cheek's red rose, that speaks of 

balmier air ; 
The Celtic hue that shades her braided 

hair ; 
The gilded missal in her kerchief tied ; 
Poor Nora, exile from Killarney's side ! 
Sister in toil, though blanched by 

colder skies, 
That left their azure in her downcast 

eyes, 
See pallid Margaret, Labor's patient 

child, 
Scarce weaned from home, the nursling 

of the wild, 
Where white Katahdin o'er the horizon 

shines, 
And broad Penobscot dashes through 

the pines. 
Still, as she hastes, her careful fingers 

hold 
The unfailing hvmn-book in its cambric 

fold. 
Six days at drudgery's heavy wheel she 

stands, 
The seventh sweet morning folds her 

weary hands ; 
Yes, child of suffering, thou mayst well 

be sure 
He who ordained the Sabbath loves the 

poor ! 

This weekly picture faithful Memory 

draws, 
Nor claims the noisy tribute of applause ; 
Faint is the glow such barren hopes can 

lend, 
And frail the line that asks no loftier 

end. 



56 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



Trust me, kind listener, I will yet 

beguile 
Thy saddened features of the promised 

smile ; 
This magic mantle thou must well 

divide, 
It has its sable and its ermine side ; 
Yet, ere the lining of the robe appears, 
Take thou in silence what I give in 

tears. 

Dear listening soul, this transitory 

scene 
Of murmuring stillness, busily serene, — 
This solemn pause, the breathing-space 

of man, 
The halt of toil's exhausted caravan, — 
Comes sweet with music to thy wearied 

ear ; 
Rise with its anthems to a holier sphere ! 

Deal meekly, gently, with the hopes 

that guide 
The lowliest brother straying from thy 

side ; 
If right, they bid thee tremble for thine 

own, 
If wrong, the verdict is for God alone ! 

What though the champions of thy 

faith esteem 
The sprinkled fountain or baptismal 

stream ; 
Shall jealous passions in unseemly strife 
Cross their dark weapons o'er the waves 

of life? 

Let my free soul, expanding as it can, 
Leave to his scheme the thoughtful 

Puritan ; 
But Calvin's dogma shall my lips de- 
ride ? 
In that stern faith my angel Mary 
died; — 



Or ask if mercy's milder creed can save, 
Sweet sister, risen from thy new-made 
grave ? 

True, the harsh founders of thy church 

reviled 
That ancient faith, the trust of Erin's 

child ; 
Must thou be raking in the crumbled 

past 
For racks and fagots in her teeth to 

cast ? 
See from the ashes of Helvetia's pile 
The whitened skull of old Servetus 

smile ! 
Round her young heart thy "Romish 

Upas " threw 
Its firm, deep fibres, strengthening as 

she grew ; 
Thy sneering voice may call them 

" Popish tricks," — 
Her Latin prayers, her dangling cruci- 
fix, — 
But Be, Profundis blessed her father's 

grave ; 
That "idol" cross her dying mother 

gave ! 
"What if some angel looks with equal 

eyes 
On her and thee, the simple and the 

wise, 
Writes each dark fault against thy 

brighter creed, 
And drops a tear with every foolish 

bead ! 

Grieve, as thou must, o'er history's 

reeking page ; 
Blush for the wrongs that stain thy 

happier age ; 
Strive with the wanderer from the 

better path, 
Bearing thy message meekly, not in 

wrath : 



A RHYMED LESSON. 



57 



Weep for the frail that err, the weak 

that fall, 
Have thine own faith, — but hope and 

pray for all ! 

Faith ; Conscience ; Love. A meaner 
task remains, 

And humbler thoughts must creep in 
lowlier strains ; 

Shalt thou be honest ? Ask the worldly 
schools, 

And all will tell thee knaves are busier 
fools ; 

Prudent ? Industrious ? Let not modern 
pens 

Instruct "Poor Richard's" fellow-citi- 
zens. 

Be firm ! one constant element in luck 
Is genuine, solid, old Teutonic pluck ; 
See yon tall shaft ; it felt the earth- 
quake's thrill, 
Clung to its base, and greets the sun- 
rise still. 

Stick to your aim ; the mongrel's hold 
will slip, 
But only crowbars loose the bulldog's 

grip; 
Small as he looks, the jaw that never 

yields 
Drags down the bellowing monarch of 

the fields ! 

Yet in opinions look not always back ; 
Your wake is nothing, mind the coming 

track ; 
Leave what you Ve done for what you 

have to do ; 
Don't be "consistent," but be simply 

true. 

Don't catch the fidgets ; you have 
found your place 
Just in the focus of a nervous race, 



Fretful to change, and rabid to discuss, 
Full of excitements, always in a fuss ; — 
Think of the patriarchs ; then compare 

as men 
These lean-cheeked maniacs of the 

tongue and pen ! 
Run, if you like, but try to keep your 

breath ; 
Work like a man, but don't be worked 

to death ; 
And with new notions, — let me change 

the rule, — 
Don't strike the iron till it 's slightly 

cool. 

Choose well your set; our feeble na- 
ture seeks 
The aid of clubs, the countenance of 

cliques ; 
And with this object settle first of all 
Your weight of metal and your size of 

ball. 
Track not the steps of such as hold you 

cheap, 
Too mean to prize, though good enough 

to keep ; 
The "real, genuine, no-mistake Tom 

Thumbs " 
Are little people fed on great men's 

crumbs. 
Yet keep no followers of that hateful 

brood 
That basely mingles with its wholesomi 

food 
The tumid reptile, which, the poet said, 
Doth wear a precious jewel in his head. 

If the wild filly, "Progress," thou 

wouldst ride, 
Have young companions ever at thy 

side ; 
But, wouldst thou stride the stanch old 

mare, "Success," 
Go with thine elders, though they please 

thee less. 



58 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



Shun such as lounge through after- 
noons and eves, 
And on thy dial write, "Beware of 

thieves ! " 
Felon of minutes, never taught to feel 
The worth of treasures which thy fingers 

steal, 
Pick my left pocket of its silver dime, 
But spare the right, — it holds my 
golden time ! 

Does praise delight thee ? Choose 

some ultra side ; 
A sure old recipe, and often tried ; 
Be its apostle, congressman, or bard, 
Spokesman, or jokesman, only drive it 

hard ; 
But know the forfeit which thy choice 

abides, 
For on two wheels the poor reformer 

rides, 
One black with epithets the anti throws, 
One white with flattery painted by the 

pros. 

Though books on manners are not 
out of print, 

An honest tongue may drop a harmless 
hint. 
Stop not, unthinking, every friend 
you meet, 

To spin your wordy fabric in the street ; 

While you are emptying your colloquial 
pack, 

The fiend Lumbago jumps upon his 
back. 
Nor cloud his features with the un- 
welcome tale 

Of how he looks, if haply thin and pale ; 

Health is a subject for his child, his 
wife, 

And the rude office that insures his life. 
Look in his face, to meet thy neigh- 
bor's soul, 

Not on his garments, to detect a hole ; 



"How to observe," is what thy pages 

show, 
Pride of thy sex, Miss Harriet Mar- 

tineau ! 
0, what a precious book the one would 

be 
That taught observers what they 're not 

to see ! 

I tell' in verse, — 't were better done 

in prose, — 
One curious trick that everybody knows ; 
Once form this habit, and it 's very 

strange 
How long it sticks, how hard it is to 

change. 
Two friendly people, both disposed to 

smile, 
"Who meet, like others, every little 

while, 
Instead of passing with a pleasant bow, 
And "How d'ye do?" or "How's 

your uncle now ? " 
Impelled by feelings in their nature kind, 
But slightly weak, and somewhat unde- 
fined, 
Rush at each other, make a sudden 

stand, 
Begin to talk, expatiate, and expand ; 
Each looks quite radiant, seems ex- 
tremely struck, 
Their meeting so was such a piece of 

luck ; 
Each thinks the other thinks he 's 

greatly pleased 
To screw the vice in which they both 

are squeezed ; 
So there they talk, in dust, or mud, or 

snow, 
Both bored to death, and both afraid to 

go! 
Your hat once lifted, do not hang 

your fire, 
Nor, like slow Ajax, fighting stilL i& 

tire; 



A RHYMED LESSON. 



59 



When your old castor on your crown 

you clap, 
Go off ; you ' ve mounted your percussion 
cap. 

Some words on language may be 

well applied, 
And take them kindly, though they 

touch your pride ; 
Words lead to things ; a scale is more 

precise, — 
Coarse speech, bad grammar, swearing, 

drinking, vice. 
Our cold Northeaster's icy fetter clips 
The native freedom of the Saxon lips ; 
See the brown peasant of the plastic 

South, 
How all his passions play about his 

mouth ! 
With us, the feature that transmits the 

soul, 
A frozen, passive, palsied breathing-hole. 
The crampy shackles of the ploughboy's 

walk 
Tie the small muscles when he strives to 

talk ; 
Not all the pumice of the polished town 
Can smooth this roughness of the barn- 
yard down ; 
Rich, honored, titled, he betrays his race 
By this one mark, — he 's awkward in 

the face ; — 
Nature' s rude impress, long before he knew 
The sunny street that holds thesiftedfew. 
It can't be helped, though, if we 're 

taken young, 
We gain some freedom of the lips and 

tongue ; 
But school and college often try in vain 
To break the padlock of our boyhood's 

chain : 
One stubborn word will prove this axiom 

true, — 
No ouondam rustic can enunciate view. 



A few brief stanzas may be well em- 
ployed 
To speak of errors we can all avoid. 

Learning condemns beyond the reach 

of hope 
The careless lips that speak of soap for 

soap ; 
Her edict exiles from her fair abode 
The clownish voice that utters road for 

road : 
Less stern to him who calls his coat a 

coat, 
And steers his boat, believing it a 

boat, 
She pardoned one. our classic city's boast, 
Who said at Cambridge, most instead of 

most, 
But knit her brows and stamped her 

angry foot 
To hear a Teacher call a rdot a root. 

Once more ; speak clearly, if you speak 

at all ; 
Carve every word before you let it 

fall; 
Don't, like a lecturer or dramatic star, 
Try over hard to roll the British R ; 
Do put your accents in the proper spot ; 
Don't, — let me beg you, — don't say 

"How? "for "What?" 
And, when you stick on conversation's 

burrs, 
Don't strew your pathway with those 

dreadful urs. 

From little matters let us pass to 
less, 

And lightly touch the mysteries of dress ; 

The outward forms the inner man re- 
veal, — . 

We guess the pulp before we cut the 
peel. 

I leave the broadcloth, — coats and 
all the rest, — 



60 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



The dangerous waistcoat, called by cock- 
neys "vest," 

The things named "pants" in certain 
documents, 

A word not made for gentlemen, but 
"gents"; 

One single precept might the whole con- 
dense : 

Be sure your tailor is a man of sense ; 

But add a little care, a decent pride, 

And always err upon the sober side. 

Three pairs of boots one pair of feet de- 
mands, 

If polished daily by the owner's hands ; 

If the dark menial's visit save from 
this, 

Have twice the number, for he '11 some- 
times miss. 

One pair for critics of the nicer sex, 

Close in the instep's clinging circum- 
flex, 

Long, narrow, light ; the Gallic boot of 
love, 

A kind of cross between a boot and 
glove. 

Compact, but easy, strong, substantial, 
square, 

Let native art compile the medium pair. 

The third remains, and let your tasteful 
skill 

Here show some relics of affection still ; 

Let no stiff cowhide, reeking from the 
tan, 

No rough caoutchouc, no deformed bro- 
gan, 

Disgrace the tapering outline of your 
feet, 

Though yellow torrents gurgle through 
the street. 

"Wear seemly gloves ; not black, nor 
yet too light, 
And least of all the pair that once was 
white ; 



Let the dead party where you told your 

loves 
Bury in peace its dead bouquets and 

gloves ; 
Shave like the goat, if so your fancy bids, 
But be a parent, — don't neglect your 

kids. 

Have a good hat ; the secret of your 
looks 

Lives with the beaver in Canadian brooks ; 

Virtue may flourish in an old cravat, 

But man and nature scorn the shocking 
hat. 

Does beauty slight you from her gay 
abodes ? 

Like bright Apollo, you must take to 
Ehoades, — 

Mount the new castor, — ice itself will 
melt ; 

Boots, gloves, may fail ; the hat is al- 
ways felt ! 

Be shy of breastpins ; plain, well- 
ironed white, 

With small pearl buttons, — two of them 
in sight, — 

Is always genuine, while your gems may 
pass, 

Though real diamonds, for ignoble glass ; 

But spurn those paltry Cisatlantic lies, 

That round his breast the shabby rustic 
ties ; 

Breathe not the name, profaned to hallow 
things 

The indignant laundress blushes when 
she brings ! 

Our freeborn race, averse to every 

check, 
Has tossed the yoke of Europe from its 

neck ; 
From the green prairie to the sea-girt 

town, 
The whole wide nation turns its collars 

down. 



A RHYMED LESSON. 



61 



The stately neck is manhood's manli- 
est part ; 
It takes the life-blood freshest from the 

heart ; 
"With short, curled ringlets close around 

it spread, 
How light and strong it lifts the Grecian 

head ! 
Thine, fair Erechtheus of Minerva's 

wall ; — 
Or thine, young athlete of the Louvre's 

hall, 
Smooth as the pillar flashing in the 

sun 
That filled the arena where thy wreaths 

were won, — 
Firm as the band that clasps the antlered 

spoil, 
Strained in the winding anaconda's coil ! 

I spare the contrast ; it were only 
kind 

To be a little, nay, intensely blind : 

Choose for yourself : I know it cuts your 
ear ; 

I know the points will sometimes inter- 
fere ; 

I know that often, like the filial John, 

Whom sleep surprised with half his dra- 
pery on, 

You show your features to the astonished 
town 

With one side standing and the other 
down ; — 

But, my friend ! my favorite fellow- 
man ! 

If Nature made you on her modern 
plan, 

Sooner than wander with your windpipe 
bare, — 

The fruit of Eden ripening in the air, — 

With that lean head-stalk, that protrud- 
ing chin, 

Wear standing collars, were they made 
of tin! 



And have a neck-cloth, — by the throat 

of Jove ! 
Cut from the funnel of a rusty stove ! 

The long-drawn lesson narrows to its 
close, 
Chill, slender, slow, the dwindled cur- 
rent flows ; i 
Tired of the ripples on its feeble springs, 
Once more the Muse unfolds her upward 
wings. 

Land of my birth, with this unhal* 
lowed tongue, 

Thy hopes, thy dangers, I perchance had 
sung; 

But who shall sing, in brutal disregard 

Of all the essentials of the "native 
bard " ? 
Lake, sea, shore, prairie, forest, moun- 
tain, fall, 

His eye omnivorous must devour them 
all ; 

The tallest summits and the broadest 
tides 

His foot must compass with its giant 
strides, 

Where Ocean thunders, where Missouri 
rolls, 

And tread at once the tropics and th* 
poles ; 

His food all forms of earth, fire, water, 
air, 

His home all space, his birthplace every- 
where. 

Some grave compatriot, having seen 
perhaps 

The pictured page that goes in Worces- 
ter's Maps, 

And read in earnest what was said in jest, 

"Who drives fat oxen " — please to add 
the rest, — 

Sprung the odd notion that the poet'a 
dreams 



62 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



Grow in the ratio of his hills and streams ; 

And hence insisted that the aforesaid 
''bard," 

Pink of the future, — fancy's pattern- 
card, — 

The babe of nature in the "giant West," 

Must be of course her biggest and her 
best. 

when at length the expected bard 

shall come, 
Land of our pride, to strike thine echoes 

dumb, 
(And many a voice exclaims in prose 

and rhyme, 
It 's getting late, and he 's behind his 

time,) 
When all thy mountains clap their hands 

in joy, 
And all thy cataracts thunder, " That 's 

the boy," — 
Say if with him the reign of song shall 

end, 
And Heaven declare its final dividend ? 

Be calm, dear brother ! whose impas- 
sioned strain 
Comes from an alley watered by a drain ; 
The little Mincio, dribbling to the Po, 
Beats all the epics of the Hoang Ho ; 
If loved in earnest by the tuneful maid, 
Don't mind their nonsense, — never be 
afraid ! 

The nurse of poets feeds her winged 

brood 
By common firesides, on familiar food ; 
In a low hamlet, by a narrow stream, 
Where bovine rustics used to doze and 

dream, 
She filled young William's fiery fancy full, 
While old John Shakespeare talked of 

beeves and wool ! 

No Alpine needle, with its climbing 
spire, 



Brings down for mortals the Promethean 

fire; 
If careless nature have forgot to frame 
An altar worthy of the sacred flame. 
Unblest by any save the goatherd's 

lines, 
Mont Blanc rose soaring through his 

"sea of pines" ; 
In vain the rivers from their ice-caves 

flash; 
No hymn salutes them but the Eanz des 

Vaches, 
Till lazy Coleridge, by the morning's 

light, 
Gazed for a moment on the fields of 

white, 
And lo, the glaciers found at length a 

tongue, 
Mont Blanc was vocal, and Chamouni 

sung ! 

Children of wealth or want, to each is 

given 
One spot of green, and all the blue of 

heaven ! 
Enough, if these their outward shows 

impart ; 
The rest is thine, — the scenery of the 

heart. 

If passion's hectic in thy stanzas glow, 
Thy heart's best life-blood ebbing as 

they flow ; 
If with thy verse thy strength and bloom 

distil, 
Drained by the pulses of the fevered 

thrill ; 
If sound's sweet effluence polarize thy 

brain, 
And thoughts turn crystals in thy fluid 

strain, — 
Nor rolling ocean, nor' the prairie's 

bloom, 
Nor streaming cliffs, nor rayless cavern's 

gloom, 



/ 



A EHYMED LESSON. 



63 



Need'st thou, young poet, to inform thy 

line ; 
Thy own broad signet stamps thy song 

divine ! 
Let others gaze where silvery streams 

are rolled, 
And chase the rainbow for its cup of 

gold; 
To thee all landscapes wear a heavenly 

dye, 
Changed in the glance of thy prismatic 

eye ; 
Nature evoked thee in sublimer throes, 
For thee her inmost Arethusa flows, — 
The mighty mother's living depths are 

stirred, — 
Thou art the starred Osiris of the herd ! 

A few brief lines ; they touch on 
solemn chords, 
And hearts may leap to hear their hon- 
est words ; 
Yet, ere the jarring bugle-blast is blown, 
The softer lyre shall breathe its soothing 
tone. 

New England ! proudly may thy 
children claim 

Their honored birthright by its hum- 
blest name ! 

Cold are thy skies, but, ever fresh and 
clear, 

No rank malaria stains thine atmos- 
phere ; 

No fungous weeds invade thy scanty 
soil, 

Scarred by the ploughshares of unslum- 
bering toil. 

Long may the doctrines by thy sages 
taught, 

Raised from the quarries where their 
sires have wrought, 

Be like the granite of thy rock-ribbed 
land, — 

As slow to rear, as obdurate to stand : 



And as the ice, that leaves thy crystal 

mine, 
Chills the fierce alcohol in the Creole's 

wine, 
So may the doctrines of thy sober school 
Keep the hot theories of thy neighbors 

cool ! 

If ever, trampling on her ancient patli, 

Cankered by treachery, or inflamed by 
wrath, 

With smooth "Resolves," or with dis- 
cordant cries, 

The mad Briareus of disunion rise, 

Chiefs of New England ! by your sires' 
renown, 

Dash the red torches of the rebel down ! 

Flood his black hearthstone till its 
flames expire, 

Though your old Sachem fanned his 
council-fire ! 

But if at last — her fading cycle 

run — 
The tongue must forfeit what the arm 

has won, 
Then rise, wild Ocean ! roll thy surging 

shock 
Full on old Plymouth's desecrated rock ! 
Scale the proud shaft degenerate hands 

have hewn, 
Where bleeding Valor stained the flowers 

of June ! 
Sweep in one tide her spires and turrets 

down, 
And howl her dirge above Monadnock's 

crown ! 

List not the tale ; the Pilgrim's hal- 
lowed shore, 
Though strewn with weeds, is granite at 

the core ; 
rather trust that He who made her free 
Will keep her true, as long as faith shall 
be! 



64 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



Farewell ! yet lingering through the 
destined hour, 
Leave, sweet Enchantress, one memorial 
flower ! 

An Angel, floating o'er the waste of 

snow 
That clad our Western desert, long ago, 
(The same fair spirit, who, unseen by day, 
Shone as a star along the Mayflower's 

way,) 
Sent, the first herald of the Heavenly 

plan, 
To choose on earth a resting-place for 

man, — 
Tired with his flight along the unvaried 

field, 
Turned to soar upwards, when his glance 

revealed 
A calm, bright bay, enclosed in rocky 

bounds, 
And at its entrance stood three sister 

mounds. 

The Angel spake: "This threefold 

hill shall be 
The home of Arts, the nurse of Liberty ! 
One stately summit from its shaft shall 

pour 
Its deep-red blaze along the darkened 

shore ; 
Emblem of thoughts, that, Jrindling far 

and wide, 
In danger's night shall be a nation's 

guide. 
One swelling crest the citadel shall crown, 
Its slanted bastions black with battle's 

frown, 
And bid the sons that tread its scowling 

heights 
Bare their strong arms for man and all 

his rights ! 
One silent steep along the northern wave 
Shall hold the patriarch's and the hero's 

grave; 



"When fades the torch, when o'er the 

peaceful scene 
The embattled fortress smiles in living 

green, 
The cross of Faith, the anchor staff of 

Hope, 
Shall stand eternal on its grassy slope ; 
There through all time shall faithful 

Memory tell, 
' Here Virtue toiled, and Patriot Valor 

fell; 
Thy free, proud fathers slumber at thy 

side ; 
Live as they lived, or perish as they 

died!'" 



AN AFTER-DINNER POEM.l 

(TERPSICHOEE.) 

In narrowest girdle, reluctant Muse, 
In closest frock and Cinderella shoes, 
Bound to the foot-lights for thy brief 

display, 
One zephyr step, and then dissolve away ! 



Short is the space that gods and men 

can spare 
To Song's twin brother when she is not 

there. 
Let others water every lusty line, 
As Homer's heroes did their purple 

wine ; 
Pierian revellers ! Know in strains like 

these 
The native juice, the real honest 

squeeze, — 
Strains that, diluted to the twentieth 

power, 
In yon grave temple might have filled 

an hour. 

1 Read at the Annual Dinner of the $ B K 
Society, at Cambridge, August 24, 1S4& 



AN AFTER-DINNER POEM. 



65 



Small room for Fancy's many-chorded 

lyre, 
For Wit's bright rockets with their trains 

of fire, 
For Pathos, straggling vainly to surprise 
The iron tutor's tear-denying eyes, 
For Mirth, whose finger with delusive 

wile 
Turns the grim key of many a rusty 

smile, 
For Satire, emptying his corrosive flood 
On hissing Folly's gas-exhaling brood, 
The pun, the fun, the moral and the 

joke, 
The hit, the thrust, the pugilistic 

poke, — 
Small space for these, so pressed by nig- 
gard Time, 
Like that false matron, known to nursery 

rhyme, — 
Insidious Morey, — scarce her tale begun, 
Ere listening infants weep the story 

done. 

had we room to rip the mighty bags 
That Time, the harlequin, has stuffed 

with rags ! 
Grant us one moment to unloose the 

strings, 
While the old graybeard shuts his leather 

wings. 
But what a heap of motley trash appears 
Crammed in the bundles of successive 

years ! 
As the lost rustic on some festal day 
Stares through the concourse in its vast 

array, — 
Where in one cake a throng of faces 

runs, 
All stuck together like a sheet of 

buns, — 
And throws the bait of some unheeded 

name, 
Or shoots a wink with most uncertain 

aim, 



So roams my vision, wandering over all, 
And strives to choose, but knows not 
where to fall. 

Skins of flayed authors, — husks of dead 
reviews, — 

The turn-coat's clothes, — the office- 
seeker's shoes, — 

Scraps from cold feasts, where conversa- 
tion runs 

Through mouldy toasts to oxidated puns, 

And grating songs a listening crowd en- 
dures, 

Rasped from the throats of bellowing 
amateurs ; — 

Sermons, whose writers played such dan- 
gerous tricks 

Their own heresiarchs called them here- 
tics 

(Strange that one term such distant poles 
should link, 

The Priestleyan's copper and the Pusey- 
an's zinc) ; — 

Poems that shuffle with superfluous legs 

A blindfold minuet over addled eggs, 

Where all the syllables that end in ed, 

Like old dragoons, have cuts across the 
head ; — 

Essays so dark Champollion might de- 
spair 

To guess what mummy of a thought was 
there, 

Where our poor English, striped with for- 
eign phrase, 

Looks like a Zebra in a parson's chaise ; — 

Lectures that cut our dinners down to 
roots, 

Or prove (by monkeys) men should stick 
to fruits ; 

Delusive error, — as at trifling charge 

Professor Gripes will certify at large ; — 

Mesmeric pamphlets, which to facts ap- 
peal, 

Each fact as slippery as a fresh-caught 
eel; — 



66 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



And figured heads, whose hieroglyphs 
invite 

To wandering knaves that discount fools 
at sight ; — 

Such things as these, with heaps of un- 
paid bills, 

And candy puffs and homoeopathic pills, 

And ancient bell-crowns with contracted 
rim, 

And bonnets hideous with expanded 
brim, 

And coats whose memory turns the sar- 
tor pale, 

Their sequels tapering like a lizard's 
tail ; — 

How might we spread them to the smil- 
ing day, 

And toss them, fluttering like the new- 
mown hay, 

To laughter's light or sorrow's pitying 
shower, 

Were these brief minutes lengthened to 
an hour. 

The narrow moments fit like Sunday 
shoes, 

How vast the heap, how quickly must 
we choose ; 

A few small scraps from out his moun- 
tain mass 

We snatch in haste, and let the vagrant 
pass. 

This shrunken crust that Cerberus could 
not bite, 

Stamped (in one corner) "Pickwick copy- 
) right, " 

Kneaded by youngsters, raised by flat- 
tery's yeast, 

Was once a loaf, and helped to make a 
feast. 

He for whose sake the glittering show 
appears 

Has sown the world with laughter and 
with tears, 



And they whose welcome wets the bump« 
er's brim 

Have wit and wisdom, — for they all 
quote him. 

So, many a tongue the evening hour pro- 
longs 

With spangled speeches, — let alone the 
songs, — 

Statesmen grow merry, lean attorneys 
laugh, 

And weak teetotals warm to half and 
half, 

And beardless Tullys, new to festive 
scenes, 

Cut their first crop of youth's precocious 
greens, 

And wits stand ready for impromptu 
claps, 

With loaded barrels and percussion caps, 

And Pathos, cantering through the mi- 
nor keys, 

Waves all her onions to the trembling 
breeze ; 

While the great Feasted views with si- 
lent glee 

His scattered limbs in Yankee fricassee. 

Sweet is the scene where genial friend- 
ship plays 

The pleasing game of interchanging 
praise ; 

Self-love, grimalkin of the human heart, 

Is ever pliant to the master's art ; 

Soothed with a word, she peacefully 
withdraws 

And sheathes in velvet her obnoxious 
claws, 

And thrills the hand that smooths her 
glossy fur 

With the light tremor of her grateful 
pur. 

But what sad music fills the quiet hall, 
If on her back a feline rival fe^l ; 



AN AFTER-DINNER POEM. 



67 



And 0, what noises shake the tranquil 

house, 
If old Self-interest cheats her of a mouse ! 

Thou, my country, hast thy foolish 

ways, 
Too apt to pur at every stranger's praise ; 
But, if the stranger touch thy modes or 

laws, 
Off goes the velvet and out come the 

claws ! 
And thou, Illustrious! but too poorly 

paid 
In toasts from Pickwick for thy great 

crusade, 
Though, while the echoes labored with 

thy name, 
The public trap denied thy little game, 
Let other lips our jealous laws revile, — 
The marble Talfourd or the rude Car- 

lyie, - 

But on thy lids, which Heaven forbids 
to close 

Where'er the light of kindly nature glows, 

Let not the dollars that a churl denies 

Weigh like the shillings on a dead man's 
eyes ! 

Or, if thou wilt, be more discreetly blind, 

Nor ask to see all wide extremes com- 
bined. 

Not in our wastes the dainty blossoms 
smile, 

That crowd the gardens of thy scanty isle. 

There white-cheeked Luxury weaves a 
thousand charms ; — 

Here sun-browned Labor swings his 
naked arms. 

Long are the furrows he must trace be- 
tween 

The ocean's azure and the prairie's green ; 

Full many a blank his destined realm 
displays, 

Yet see the promise of his riper days : 

Far through yon depths the panting 
engine moves, 



His chariots ringing in their steel-shod 
grooves ; 

And Erie's naiad flings her diamond wave 

O'er the wild sea-nymph in her distant 
cave ! 

While tasks like these employ his anx- 
ious hours, 

What if his cornfields are not edged 
with flowers? 

Though bright as silver the meridian 
beams 

Shine through the crystal of thine Eng- 
lish streams, 

Turbid and dark the mighty wave is 
whirled 

That drains our Andes and divides a 
world ! 

But lo ! a parchment ! Surely it would 

seem 
The sculptured impress speaks of power 

supreme ; 
Some grave design the solemn page must 

claim 
That shows so broadly an emblazoned 

name ; 
A sovereign's promise ! Look, the line* 

afford 
All Honor gives when Caution asks his 

word : 
There sacred Faith has laid her snow- 
white hands, 
And awful Justice knit her iron bands ; 
Yet every leaf is stained with treachery's 

dye, 
And every letter crusted with a lie. 
Alas ! no treason has degraded yet 
The Arab's salt, the Indian's calumet ; 
A simple rite, that bears the wanderer's 

pledge, 
Blunts the keen shaft and turns the 

dagger's edge ; — 
While jockeying senates stop to sign 

and seal, 
And f reeborn statesmen legislate to steal. 



68 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



Rise, Europe, tottering with thine Atlas 

load, 
Turn thy proud eye to Freedom's blest 

abode, 
And round her forehead, wreathed with 

heavenly flame, 
Bind the dark garland of her daughter'* 

shame ! 
Ye ocean clouds, that wrap the angry 

blast, 
Coil her stained ensign round its haughty 

mast, 
Or tear the fold that wears so foul a scar, 
And drive a bolt through every black- 
ened star ! 

Once more, — once only, — we must stop 

so soon, — 
"What have we here ? A German-sil- 
ver spoon ; 
A cheap utensil, which we often see 
"Used by the dabblers in aesthetic tea, 
Of slender fabric, somewhat light and 

thin, 
Made of mixed metal, chiefly lead and 

tin; 
The bowl is shallow, and the handle 

small, 
Marked in large letters with the name 

Jean Paul. 
Small as it is, its powers are passing 

strange, 
For all who use it show a wondrous 

change ; 
And first, a fact to make the barbers 

stare, 
It beats Macassar for the growth of hair ; 
See those small youngsters whose ex- 
pansive ears 
Maternal kindness grazed with frequent 

shears ; 
Each bristling crop a dangling mass 

becomes, 
And all the spoonies turn to Absa- 

loms ! 



Nor this alone its magic power displays, 

It alters strangely all their works and 
ways; 

With uncouth words they tire their 
tender lungs, 

The same bald phrases on their hun- 
dred tongues ; 
"Ever" "The Ages" in their page ap- 
pear, 

"Alway" the bedlamite is called a 
"Seer"; 

On every leaf the "earnest" sage may 
scan, 

Portentous bore! their "many-sided" 
man, — 

A weak eclectic, groping vague and 
dim, 

Whose every angle is a half-starved 
whim, 

Blind as a mole and curious as a lynx, 

Who rides a beetle, which he calls a 
"Sphinx." 

And what questions asked in club- 
foot rhyme 

Of Earth the tongueless and the deaf- 
mute Time! 

Here babbling " Insight " shouts in Na- 
ture's ears 

His last conundrum on the orbs and 
spheres ; 

There Self -inspection sucks its little 
thumb, 

With "Whence am I?" and "Where- 
fore did I come ? " 

Deluded infants ! will they ever know 

Some doubts must darken o'er the world 
below, 

Though all the Platos of the nursery 
trail 

Their " clouds of glory " at the go-cart's 
taH? 

might these couplets their attention 
claim, 

That gain their author the Philistine's 
name : 



AN AFTER-DINNER POEM. 



69 



(A stubborn race, that, spurning foreign 

law, 
"Was much belabored with an ass's jaw !) 

Melodious Laura! From the sad re- 
treats 

That hold thee, smothered with excess 
of sweets, 

Shade of a shadow, spectre of a dream, 

Glance thy wan eye across the Stygian 
stream ! 

The slip-shod dreamer treads thy fra- 
grant halls, 

The sophist's cobwebs hang thy roseate 
walls, 

And o'er the crotchets of thy jingling 
tunes 

The bard of mystery scrawls his crooked 
"runes." 

Yes, thou art gone, with all the tuneful 
hordes 

That candied thoughts in amber-colored 
words, 

And in the precincts of thy late abodes 

The clattering verse-wright hammers 
Orphic odes. 

Thou, soft as zephyr, wast content to 
fly 



On the gilt pinions of a balmy sigh ; 
He, vast as Phosbus on his burning 

wheels, 
"Would stride through ether at Orion's 

heels ; 
Thy emblem, Laura, was a perfume-jar, 
And thine, young Orpheus, is a pewter 

star; 
The balance trembles, — be its verdict 

told 
"When the new jargon slumbers with the 

old! 



Cease, playful goddess ! From thine airy 

bound 
Drop like a feather softly to the ground ; 
This light bolero grows a ticklish dance, 
And there is mischief in thy kindling 

glance. 
To-morrow bids thee, with rebuking 

frown, 
Change thy gauze tunic for a home-made 

gown, 
Too blest by fortune, if the passing day 
Adorn thy bosom with its frail bouquet, 
But still happier if the next forgets 
Thy daring steps and dangerous pirou' 

dttes t 




HOLMES'S POEMS. 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

FROM "THE COLLEGIAN," 1830, ILLUSTRATED ANNUALS, ETC. 

Nescit vox niissa reverti. — Horat. Ars Poetica. 
Ab iis quse non adjuvant quam mollissime oportet pedem referre. — Qcjintilian, L. VI. C. 4. 



THE MEETING OF THE DRYADS.l 

It was not many centuries since, 
When, gathered on the moonlit green, 

Beneath the Tree of Liberty, 
A ring of weeping sprites was seen. 

The freshman's lamp had long been dim, 
The voice of busy day was mute, 

And tortured Melody had ceased 
Her sufferings on the evening flute. 

They met not as they once had met, 
To laugh o'er many a jocund tale : 

But every pulse was beating low, 
And every cheek was cold and pale. 

There rose a fair but faded one, 

Who oft had cheered them with her 
song; 

She waved a mutilated arm, 
And silence held the listening throng. 

"Sweet friends," the gentle nymph be- 
gan, 

"From opening bud to withering leaf, 
One common lot has bound us all, 

In every change of joy and grief. 

i "Written after a general pruning of the trees 
around Harvard College. 



"While all around has felt decay, 
We rose in ever-living prime, 

With broader shade and fresher green, 
Beneath the crumbling step of Time. 

" When often by our feet has past 
Some biped, Nature's walking whim, 

Say, have we trimmed one awkward 
shape, 
Or lopped away one crooked limb ? 

"Go on, fair Science; soon to thee 
Shall Nature yield her idle boast ; 

Her vulgar fingers formed a tree, 
But thou hast trained it to a post 

"Go, paint the birch's silver rind, 
And quilt the peach with softer down ; 

Up with the willow's trailing threads, 
Off with the sunflower's radiant crown I 

"Go, plant the lily on the shore, 
And set the rose among the waves, 

And bid the tropic bud unbind 
Its silken zone in arctic caves ; 

" Bring bellows for the panting winds, 
Hang up a lantern by the moon, 

And give the nightingale a fife, 
And lend the eagle a balloon ! 



72 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



" I cannot smile, — the tide of scorn, 
That rolled through every bleeding 
vein, 

Comes kindling fiercer as it flows 
Back to its burning source again. 

"Again in every quivering leaf 
That moment's agony I feel, 

When limbs, that spurned the northern 
blast, 
Shrunk from the sacrilegious steel. 

"A curse upon the wretch who dared 
To crop us with his felon saw ! 

May every fruit his lip shall taste 
Lie like a bullet in his maw. 

"In every julep that he drinks, 
May gout, and bile, and headache be; 

And when he strives to calm his pain, 
May colic mingle with his tea. 

1 ' May nightshade cluster round his path, 
And thistles shoot, and brambles 
cling ; 

May blistering ivy scorch his veins, 
And dogwood burn, and nettles sting. 

"On him may never shadow fall, 
When fever racks his throbbing brow, 

And his last shilling buy a rope 

To hang him on my highest bough !" 

She spoke ; — the morning's herald beam 
Sprang from the bosom of the sea, 

And every mangled sprite returned 
In sadness to her wounded tree. 1 



THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR. 

There was a sound of hurrying feet, 
A tramp on echoing stairs, 

1 A little poem, on a similar occasion, may 
be found in the works of Swift, from which, 
perhaps, the idea was borrowed; although I 
was as much surprised as amused to meet with 
it some time after writing the preceding lines. 



There was a rush along the aisles, — • 
It was the hour of prayers. 

And on, like Ocean's midnight wave, 

The current rolled along, 
When, suddenly, a stranger form 

Was seen amidst the throng. 

He was a dark and swarthy man, 

That uninvited guest ; 
A faded coat of bottle-green 

Was buttoned round his breast. 

There was not one among them all 
Could say from whence he came ; 

Nor beardless boy, nor ancient man, 
Could tell that stranger's name. 

All silent as the sheeted dead, 
In spite of sneer and frown, 

Fast by a gray-haired senior's side 
He sat him boldly down. 

There was a look of horror flashed 

From out the tutor's eyes ; 
When all around him rose to pray, 

The stranger did not rise ! 

A murmur broke along the crowd, 

The prayer was at an end ; 
With ringing heels and measured tread, 

A hundred forms descend. 

Through sounding aisle, o'er grating 
stair, 

The long procession poured, 
Till all were gathered on the seats 

Around the Commons board. 

That fearful stranger ! down he sat, 

Unasked, yet undismayed ; 
And on his lip a rising smile 

Of scorn or pleasure played. 

He took his hat and hung it up, 

With slow but earnest air ; 
He stripped his coat from off his back, 

And placed it on a chair. 



THE TOADSTOOL. 



73 



Then from his nearest neighbor's side 

A knife and plate he drew ; 
And, reaching out his hand again, 

He took his teacup too. 

How fled the sugar from the bowl ! 

How sunk the azure cream ! 
They vanished like the shapes that float 

Upon a summer's dream. 

A long, long draught, — an outstretched 
hand, — 

And crackers, toast, and tea, 
They faded from the stranger's touch, 

Like dew upon the sea. 

Then clouds were dark on many a brow, 

Fear sat upon their souls, 
And, in a bitter agony, 

They clasped their buttered rolls. 

A whisper trembled through the 
crowd, — 

Who could the stranger be ? 
And some were silent, for they thought 

A cannibal was he. 

What if the creature should arise, — 
For he was stout and tall, — 

And swallow down a sophomore, 
Coat, crow's-foot, cap, and all ! 

All sullenly the stranger rose ; 

They sat in mute despair ; 
He took his hat from off the peg, 

His coat from off the chair. 

Four freshmen fainted on the seat, 
Six swooned upon the floor ; 

Yet on the fearful being passed, 
And shut the chapel door. 

There is full many a starving man, 

That walks in bottle green, 
But never more that hungry one 

In Commons-hall was seen. 



Yet often at the sunset hour, 
When tolls the evening bell, 

The freshman lingers on the steps, 
That frightful tale to tell. 

THE TOADSTOOL. 

There 's a thing that grows by the 
fainting flower, 

And springs in the shade of the lady's 
bower ; 

The lily shrinks, and the rose turns pale, 

When they feel its breath in the sum- 
mer gale, 

And the tulip curls its leaves in pride, 

And the blue-eyed violet starts aside ; 

But the lily may flaunt, and the tulip 
stare, 

For what does the honest toadstool care ? 

She does not glow in a painted vest, 
And she never blooms on the maiden's 

breast ; 
But she comes, as the saintly sisters do, 
In a modest suit of a Quaker hue. 
And, when the stars in the evening skies 
Are weeping dew from their gentle eyes, 
The toad comes out from his hermit cell, 
The tale of his faithful love to tell. 

there is light in her lover's glance, 
That flies to her heart like a silver lance ; 
His breeches are made of spotted skin, 
His jacket is tight, and his pumps are 

thin; 
In a cloudless night you may hear his 

song, 
As its pensive melody floats along, 
And, if you. will look by the moonlight 

fair, 
The trembling form of the toad is there. 

And he twines his arms round her slen* 

der stem, 
In the shade of her velvet diadem; 



74 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



But she turns away in her maiden shame, 
And will not breathe on the kindling 

flame; 
He sings at her feet through the live- 
long night, 
And creeps to his cave at the break of 

light ; 
And whenever he comes to the air above, 
His throat is swelling with baffled love. 



THE SPECTRE PIG. 

A BALLAD. 

It was the stalwart butcher man, 
That knit his swarthy brow, 

And said the gentle Pig must die, 
And sealed it with a vow. 

And oh ! it was the gentle Pig 
Lay stretched upon the ground, 

And ah ! it was the cruel knife 
His little heart that found. 

They took him then, those wicked men, 
They trailed him all along ; 

They put a stick between his lips, 
And through his heels a thong ; 

And round and round an oaken beam 

A hempen cord they flung, 
And, like a mighty pendulum, 

All solemnly he swung ! 

How say thy prayers, thou sinful man, 
And think what thou hast done, 

And read thy catechism well, 
Thou bloody-minded one ; 

For if his sprite should walk by night, 

It better were for thee, 
That thou wert mouldering in the 
ground, 

Or bleaching in the sea. 



It was the savage butcher then, 

That made a mock of sin, 
And swore a very wicked oath, 

He did not care a pin. 

It was the butcher's youngest son, — 
His voice was broke with sighs, 

And with his pocket-handkerchief 
He wiped his little eyes ; 

All young and ignorant was he, ■ 

But innocent and mild, 
And, in his soft simplicity, 

Out spoke the tender child :— 

" father, father, list to me ; 

The Pig is deadly sick, 
And men have hung him by his heels, 

And fed him with a stick." 

It was the bloody butcher then, 
That laughed as he would die, 

Yet did he soothe the sorrowing child, 
And bid him not to cry ; — 

"0 Nathan, Nathan, what 's a Pig, 
That thou shouldst weep and wail ? 

Come, bear thee like a butcher's child, 
And thou shalt have his tail ! " 

It was the butcher's daughter then, 

So slender and so fair, 
That sobbed as if her heart would break, 

And tore her yellow hair ; 

And thus she spoke in thrilling tone, — 
Fast fell the tear-drops big ; — 

"Ah ! woe is me ! Alas ! Alas ! 
The Pig ! The Pig ! The Pig ! " 

Then did her wicked father's lips 

Make merry with her woe, 
And call her many a naughty name, 

Because she whimpered so. 



TO A CAGED LION. 



75 



Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones, 

In vain your tears are shed, 
Ye cannot wash his crimson hand, 

Ye cannot soothe the dead. 

The bright sun folded on his breast 

His robes of rosy flame, 
And softly over all the west 

The shades of evening came 

He slept, and troops of murdered Pigs 
"Were busy with his dreams ; 

Loud rang their wild, unearthly shrieks, 
Wide yawned their mortal seams. 

The clock struck twelve ; the Dead hath 
heard ; 

He opened both his eyes, 
And sullenly he shook his tail 

To lash the feeding flies. 

One quiver of the hempen cord, — 
One struggle and one bound, — 

"With stiffened limb and leaden eye, 
The Pig was on the ground ! 

And straight towards the sleeper's house 
His fearful way he wended ; 

And hooting owl, and hovering bat, 
On midnight wing attended. 

Back flew the bolt, up rose the latch, 

And open swung the door, 
And little mincing feet were heard 

Pat, pat along the floor. 

Two hoofs upon the sanded floor, 

And two upon the bed ; 
And they are breathing side by side, 

The living and the dead ! 

"Now wake, now wake, thou butcher 
man ! 

"What makes thy cheek so pale ? 
Take hold ! take hold ! thou dost not fear 

To clasp a spectre's tail ? " 



Untwisted every winding coil ; 

The shuddering wretch took hold, 
All like an icicle it seemed, 

So tapering and so cold. 

"Thou com'st with me, thou butcher 
man ! " — 

He strives to loose his grasp, 
But, faster than the clinging vine, 

Those twining spirals clasp. 

And open, open swung the door, 

And, fleeter than the wind, 
The shadowy spectre swept before, 

The butcher trailed behind. 

Fast fled the darkness of the night, 
And morn rose faint and dim ; 

They called full loud, they knocked full 
long, 
They did not waken him. 

Straight, straight towards that oaken 
beam, 

A trampled pathway ran ; 
A ghastly shape was swinging there, — 

It was the butcher man. 



TO A CAGED LION. 

Poor conquered monarch ! though that 

haughty glance 
Still speaks thy courage unsubdued 

by time, 
And in the grandeur of thy sullen tread 
Lives the proud spirit of thy burning 

clime ; — 
Fettered by things that shudder at thy 

roar, 
Torn from thy pathless wilds to pace 

this narrow floor ! 

Thou wast the victor, and all nature 
shrunk 
Before the thunders of thine awful 
wrath j 



76 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The steel-armed hunter viewed thee 
from afar, 
Fearless and trackless in thy lonely- 
path ! 

The famished tiger closed his flaming 
eye, 

And crouched and panted as thy step 
went by ! 

Thou art the vanquished, and insulting 

man 
Bars thy broad bosom as a sparrow's 

wing; 
His nerveless arms thine iron sinews 

bind, 
And lead in chains the desert's fallen 

king; 
Are these the beings that have dared to 

twine 
Their feeble threads around those limbs 

of thine ? 

So must it be ; the weaker, wiser race, 
That wields the tempest and that rides 
the sea, 

Even in the stillness of thy solitude 
Must teach the lesson of its power to 
thee; 

And thou, the terror of the trembling 
wild, 

Must bow thy savage strength, the mock- 
ery of a child ! 



THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY. 

The sun stepped down from his golden 
throne, 

And lay in the silent sea, 
And the Lily had folded her satin leaves, 

For a sleepy thing was she ; 
What is the Lily dreaming of ? 

"Why crisp the waters blue ? 
See, see, she is lifting her varnished lid ! 

Her white leaves are glistening 
through ! 



The Eose is cooling his burning cheek 

In the lap of the breathless tide ; — 
The Lily hath sisters fresh and fair, 

That would lie by the Rose's side ; 
He would love her better than all the rest, 

And he would be fond and true ; — 
Biat the Lily unfolded her weary lids, 

And looked at the sky so blue. 

Remember, remember, thou silly one, 

How fast will thy summer glide, 
And wilt thou wither a virgin pale, 

Or flourish a blooming bride ? 
" the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold, 

And he lives on earth," said she ; 
"But the Star is fair and he lives in 
the air, 

And he shall my bridegroom be. " 

But what if the stormy cloud should 
come, 
And ruffle the silver sea ? 
"Would he turn his eye from the distant 
sky, 
To smile on a thing like thee ? 
no, fair Lily, he will not send 

One ray from his far-off throne ; 
The winds shall blow and the waves 
shall flow, 
And thou wilt be left alone. 

There is not a leaf on the mountain-top 

Nor a drop of evening dew, 
Nor a golden sand on the sparkling 
shore, 
Nor a pearl in the waters blue, 
That he has not cheered with his fickle 
smile, 
And warmed with his faithless 
beam, — 
And will he be true to a pallid flower, 
That floats on the quiet stream ? 

Alas for the Lily ! she would not heed, 
But turned to the skies afar, 



ILLUSTRATION OP A PICTURE. — A ROMAN AQUEDUCT. 77 



And bared her breast to the trembling 
ray 
That shot from the rising star ; 
The cloud came over the darkened sky, 

And over the waters wide : 
She looked in vain through the beating 
rain, 
And sank in the stormy tide. 



ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE. 

"A SPANISH GIRL IN REVERIE." 

She twirled the string of golden beads, 

That round her neck was hung, — 
My grandsire's gift ; the good old man 

Loved girls when he was young ; 
And, bending lightly o'er the cord, 

And turning half away, 
With something like a youthful sigh, 

Thus spoke the maiden gray : — 

" "Well, one may trail her silken robe, 

And bind her locks with pearls, 
And one may wreathe the woodland rose 

Among her floating curls ; 
And one may tread the dewy grass, 

And one the marble floor, 
Nor half-hid bosom heave the less, 

Nor broidered corset more ! 

" Some years ago, a dark-eyed girl 

Was sitting in the shade, — 
There 's something brings her to my mind 

In that young dreaming maid, — 
And in her hand she held a flower, 

A flower, whose speaking hue 
Said, in the language of the heart, 

' Believe the giver true.' 

" And, as she looked upon its leaves, 

The maiden made a vow 
To wear it when the bridal wreath 

Was woven for her brow ; 



She watched the flower, as, day by day, 
The leaflets curled and died ; 

But he who gave it never came 
To claim her for his bride. 

" many a summer's morning glow 

Has lent the rose its ray, 
And many a winter's drifting snow 

Has swept its bloom away ; 
But she has kept that faithless pledge 

To this, her winter hour, 
And keeps it still, herself alone, 

And wasted like the flower." 

Her pale lip quivered, and the light 

Gleamed in her moistening eyes ; — 
I asked her how she liked the tints 

In those Castilian skies ? 
" She thought them misty, — 't was 
perhaps 

Because she stood too near " ; 
She turned away, and as she turned 

I saw her wipe a tear. 



A ROMAN AQUEDUCT. 

The sun-browned girl, whose limbs re- 
cline 

When noon her languid hand has laid 
Hot on the green flakes of the pine, 

Beneath its narrow disk of shade ; 

As, through the flickering noontide glare, 
She gazes on the rainbow chain 

Of arches, lifting once in air 

The rivers of the Roman's plain ; — 

Say, does her wandering eye recall 
The mountain-current's icy wave, — 

Or for the dead one tear let fall, 
Whose founts are broken by theil 
grave ? 

From stone to stone the ivy weaves 
Her braided tracery's winding veil, 



78 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And lacing stalks and tangled leaves 
Nod heavy in the drowsy gale. 

And lightly floats the pendent vine, 
That swings beneath her slender bow, 

Arch answering arch, — whose rounded 
line 
Seems mirrored in the wreath below. 

How patient Nature smiles at Fame ! 

The weeds, that strewed the victor's 
way, 
Feed on his dust to shroud his name, 

Green where his proudest towers decay. 

See, through that channel, empty now, 
The scanty rain its tribute pours, — 

Which cooled the lip and laved the brow 
Of conquerors from a hundred shores. 

Thus bending o'er the nation's bier, 
"Whose wants the captive earth sup- 
plied, 

The dew of Memory's passing tear 
Falls on the arches of her pride ! 



FROM A BACHELOR'S PRIVATE 
JOURNAL. 

Sweet Mary, I have never breathed 
The love it were in vain to name ; 

Though round my heart a serpent 
wreathed, 
I smiled, or strove to smile, the same. 

Once more the pulse of Nature glows 
With faster throb and fresher fire, 

While music round her pathway flows, 
Like echoes from a hidden lyre. 

And is there none with me to share 
The glories of the earth and sky ? 

The eagle through the pathless air 
Is followed by one burning eye. 



Ah no ! the cradled flowers may wake, 
Again may flow the frozen sea, 

From every cloud a star may break, — 
There comes no second Spring to me. 

Go, — ere the painted toys of youth 
Are crushed beneath the tread of years j 

Ere visions have been chilled to truth, 
And hopes are washed away in tears. 

Go, — for I will not bid thee weep, — 
Too soon my sorrows will be thine, 

And evening's troubled air shall sweep 
The incense from the broken shrine. 

If Heaven can hear the dying tone 
Of chords that soon will cease to thrill, 

The prayer that Heaven has heard alone 
May bless thee when those chords are 
still. 



LA GRISETTE. 

Ah Clemence ! when I saw thee last 

Trip down the Rue de Seine, 
And turning, when thy form had past, 

I said, "We meet again," — 
I dreamed not in that idle glance 

Thy latest image came, 
And only left to memory's trance 

A shadow and a name. 

The few strange words my lips had taught 

Thy timid voice to speak, 
Their gentler signs, which often brought 

Fresh roses to thy cheek, 
The trailing of thy long loose hair 

Bent o'er my couch of pain, 
All, all returned, more sweet, more fair; 

had we met again ! 

I walked where saint and virgin keep 

The vigil lights of Heaven, 
I knew that thou hadst woes to weep, 

And sins to be forgiven j 



OUR YANKEE GIRLS. — L'lNCONNUE. 



79 



I watched where Genevieve was laid, 

I knelt by Mary's shrine, 
Beside me low, soft voices prayed ; 

Alas ! but where was thine ? 

And when the morning sun was bright, 

When wind and wave were calm, 
And flamed, in thousand-tinted light, 

The rose of Notre Dame, 
I wandered through the haunts of men, 

From Boulevard to Quai, 
Till, frowning o'er Saint Etienne, 

The Pantheon's shadow lay. 

In vain, in vain ; we meet no more, 

Nor dream what fates befall ; 
And long upon the stranger's shore 

My voice on thee may call, 
When years have clothed the line in moss 

That tells thy name and days, 
And withered, on thy simple cross, 

The wreaths of Pere-la-Chaise ! 



OUR YANKEE GIRLS. 

Let greener lands and bluer skies, 

If such the wide earth shows, 
With fairer cheeks and brighter eyes, 

Match us the star and rose ; 
The winds that lift the Georgian's veil, 

Or wave Circassia's curls, 
Waft to their shores the sultan's sail, — 

Who buys our Yankee girls ? 

The gay grisette, whose fingers touch 

Love's thousand chords so well ; 
The dark Italian, loving much, 

But more than one can tell ; 
And England's fair-haired, blue-eyed 
dame, 

Who binds her brow with pearls ; — 
Ye who have seen them, can they shame 

Our own sweet Yankee girls ? 



And what if court or castle vaunt 

Its children loftier born ? — 
Who heeds the silken tassel's flaunt 

Beside the golden corn ? 
They ask not for the dainty toil 

Of ribboned knights and earls, 
The daughters of the virgin soil, 

Our freeborn Yankee girls ! 

By every hill whose stately pines 

Wave their dark arms above 
The home where some fair being shines, 

To warm the wilds with love, 
From barest rock to bleakest shore 

Where farthest sail unfurls, 
That stars and stripes are streaming 
o'er, — 

God bless our Yankee girls ! 



L'lNCONNUE. 

Is thy name Mary, maiden fair ? 

Such should, methinks, its music be ; 
The sweetest name that mortals bear 

Were best befitting thee ; 
And she to whom it once was given, 
Was half of earth and half of heaven. 



I hear thy voice, I see thy smile, 
I look upon thy folded hair ; 

Ah ! while we dream not they beguile, 
Our hearts are in the snare ; 

And she who chains a wild bird's wing 

Must start not if her captive sing. 



So, lady, take the leaf that falls, 
To all but thee unseen, unknown ; 

When evening shades thy silent walls, 
Then read it all alone ; 

In stillness read, in darkness seal, 

Forget, despise, but not reveal ! 



80 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



8TANZAS. 

Strange ! that one lightly whispered 
tone 

Is far, far sweeter unto me, 
Than all the sounds that kiss the earth, 

Or breathe along the sea ; 
But, lady, when thy voice I greet, 
Not heavenly music seems so sweet. 

I look upon the fair blue skies, 
And naught but empty air I see ; 

But when I turn me to thine eyes, 
It seemeth unto me 

Ten thousand angels spread their wings 

Within those little azure rings. 

The lily hath the softest leaf 

That ever western breeze hath fanned, 
But thou shalt have the tender flower, 

So I may take thy hand ; 
That little hand to me doth yield 
More joy than all the broidered field. 

lady ! there be many things 

That seem right fair, below, above ; 

But sure not one among them all 
Is half so sweet as love ; — 

Let us not pay our vows alone, 

But join two altars both in one. 



LINES BY A CLERK. 

Oh ! I did love her dearly, 

And gave her toys and rings, 
And I thought she meant sincerely, 

When she took my pretty things. 
But her heart has grown as icy 

As a fountain in the fall, 
And her love, that was so spicy, 

It did not last at all. 

I gave her once a locket, 
It was filled with my own hair, 



And she put it in her pocket 

With very special care. 
But a jeweller has got it, — 

He offered it to me, 
And another that is not it 

Around her neck I see. 

For my cooings and my billings 

I do not now complain, 
But my dollars and my shillings 

Will never come again ; 
They were earned with toil and sorrow, 

But I never told her that, 
And now I have to borrow, 

And want another hat. 

Think, think, thou cruel Emma, 
When thou shalt hear my woe, 

And know my sad dilemma, 
That thou hast made it so. 

See, see my beaver rusty, 
Look, look upon this hole, 

This coat is dim and dusty ; 

let it rend thy soul ! 

Before the gates of fashion 

1 daily bent my knee, 

But I sought the shrine of passion, 
And found my idol, — thee. 

Though never love intenser 
Had bowed a soul before it, 

Thine eye was on the censer, 
And not the hand that bore it. 



THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE. 

Dearest, a look is but a ray 
Reflected in a certain way ; 
A word, whatever tone it wear, 
Is but a trembling wave of air ; 
A touch, obedience to a clause 
In nature's pure material laws. 

The very flowers that bend and meet, 
In sweetening others, grow more sweet ; 



THE POET'S LOT. — TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER. 



81 



The clouds by day, the stars by night, 
Inweave their floating locks of light ; 
The rainbow, Heaven's own forehead's 

braid, 
Is but the embrace of sun and shade. 

How few that love us have we found ! 
How wide the world that girds them 

round ! 
Like mountain streams we meet and part, 
Each living in the other's heart, 
Our course unknown, our hope to be 
Yet mingled in the distant sea. 

But Ocean coils and heaves in vain, 
Bound in the subtle moonbeam's chain ; 
And love and hope do but obey 
Some cold, capricious planet's ray, 
Which lights and leads the tide it charms 
To Death's dark caves and icy arms. 

Alas ! one narrow line is drawn, 
That links our sunset with our dawn ; 
In mist and shade life's morning rose, 
And clouds are round it at its close ; 
But ah ! no twilight beam ascends 
To whisper where that evening ends. 

Oh ! in the hour when I shall feel 
Those shadows round my senses steal, 
When gentle eyes are weeping o'er 
The clay that feels their tears no more, 
Then let thy spirit with me be, 
Or some sweet angel, likest thee f 



THE POET'S LOT. 

What is a poet's love ? — 
To write a girl a sonnet, 

To get a ring, or some such thing, 
And fvstianize upon it. 

What is a poet's fame ? — 
Sad hints about his reason, 



And sadder praise from garreteers, 
To be returned in season. 

Where go the poet's lines ? — 
Answer, ye evening tapers ! 

Ye auburn locks, ye golden curls, 
Speak from your folded papers ! 

Child of the ploughshare, smile ; 

Boy of the counter, grieve not, 
Though muses round thy trundle-bed 

Their broidered tissue weave not. 

The poet's future holds 
No civic wreath above him ; 

Nor slated roof, nor varnished chaise, 
Nor wife nor child to love him. 

Maid of the village inn, 

Who workest woe on satin, 
(The grass in black, the graves in green, 

The epitaph in Latin,) 

Trust not to them who say, 
In stanzas, they adore thee ; 

rather sleep in churchyard clay, 
With urn and cherub o'er thee ! 



TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER. 

Wan-visaged thing ! thy virgin leaf 
To me looks more than deadly pale, 

Unknowing what may stair* thee yet, — 
A poem or a tale. 

Who can thy unborn meaning scan ? 

Can Seer or Sibyl read thee now ? 
No, — seek to trace the fate of man 

Writ on his infant brow. 

Love may light on thy snowy cheek, 
And shake his Eden-breathing plumes ; 

Then shalt thou tell how Lelia smiles, 
Or Angelina blooms. 



82 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Satire may lift his bearded lance, 
Forestalling Time's slow-moving 
scythe, 

And, scattered on thy little field, 
Disjointed bards may writhe. 

Perchance a vision of the night, 
Some grizzled spectre, gaunt and thin, 

Or sheeted corpse, may stalk along, 
Or skeleton may grin ! 

If it should be in pensive hour 
Some sorrow-moving theme I try, 

Ah, maiden, how thy tears will fall, 
For all I doom to die ! 

But if in merry mood I touch 

Thy leaves, then shall the sight of 
thee 
Sow smiles as thick on rosy lips 

As ripples on the sea. 

The Weekly press shall gladly stoop 
To bind thee up among its sheaves ; 

The Daily steal thy shining ore, 
To gild its leaden leaves. 

Thou hast no tongue, yet thou canst 
speak, 
Till distant shores shall hear the 
sound ; 
Thou hast no life, yet thou canst breathe 
Fresh life on all around. 

Thou art the arena of the wise, 

The noiseless battle-ground of fame ; 

The sky where halos may be wreathed 
Around the humblest name. 

Take, then, this treasure to thy trust, 
To win some idle reader's smile, 

Then fade and moulder in the dust, 
Or swell some bonfire's pile. 



TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLE- 
MAN." 

IN THE ATHEN.EUM GALLERY. 

It may be so, — perhaps thou hast 

A warm and loving heart ; 
I will not blame thee for thy face, 

Poor devil as thou art. 

That thing, thou fondly deem'st a nose, 

Unsightly though it be, — 
In spite of all the cold world's scorn, 

It may be much to thee. 

Those eyes, — among thine elder friends 
Perhaps they pass for blue, — 

No matter, — if a man can see, 
What more have eyes to do ? 

Thy mouth, — that fissure in thy face, 
By something like a chin, — 

May be a very useful place 
To put thy victual in. 

I know thou hast a wife at home, 

I know thou hast a child, 
By that subdued, domestic smile 

Upon thy features mild. 

That wife sits fearless by thy side, 

That cherub on thy knee ; 
They do not shudder at thy looks, 

They do not shrink from thee. 

Above thy mantel is a hook, — 

A portrait once was there ; 
It was thine only ornament, — 

Alas ! that hook is bare. 

She begged thee not to let it go, 
She begged thee all in vain ; 

She wept, — and breathed a trembling 
prayer 
To meet it safe again. 



THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN. 



83 



It was a bitter sight to see 
That picture torn away ; 

It was a solemn thought to think 
What all her friends would say ! 

And often in her calmer hours, 
And in her happy dreams, 

Upon its long-deserted hook 
The absent portrait seems. 

Thy wretched infant turns his head 

In melancholy wise, 
And looks to meet the placid stare 

Of those unbending eyes. 

I never saw thee, lovely one, — 

Perchance I never may ; 
It is not often that we cross 

Such people in our way ; 

But if we meet in distant years, 
Or on some foreign shore, 

Sure I can take my Bible oath, 
I 've seen that face before. 



THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN. 

It was a tall young oysterman lived by 

the river-side, 
His shop was just upon the bank, his 

boat was on the tide ; 
The daughter of a fisherman, that was so 

straight and slim, 
Lived over on the other bank, right 

opposite to him. 

It was the pensive oysterman that saw 

a lovely maid, 
Upon a moonlight evening, a sitting in 

the shade ; 
He saw her wave her handkerchief, as 

much as if to say, 
"I'm wide awake, young oysterman, 

and all the folks away." 



Then up arose the oysterman, and to 

himself said he, 
"I guess I '11 leave the skiff at home, 

for fear that folks should see ; 
I read it in the story-book, that, for to 

kiss his dear, 
Leander swam the Hellespont, — and I 

will swim this here." 

And he has leaped into the waves, and 
crossed the shining stream, 

And he has clambered up the bank, all 
in the moonlight gleam ; 

there were kisses sweet as dew, and 

words as soft as rain, — 
But they have heard her father's step, 
and in he leaps again ! 

Out spoke the ancient fisherman, — "0 

what was that, my daughter?" 
"'Twas nothing but a pebble, sir, I 

threw into the water." 
* 'And what is that, pray tell me, love, 

that paddles off so fast?" 
" It 's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that 's 

been a swimming past." 

Out spoke the ancient fisherman, — 
"Now bring me my harpoon! 

1 '11 get into my fishing-boat, and fix 

the fellow soon." 
Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls 

a snow-white lamb, 
Her hair drooped round her pallid 

cheeks, like seaweed on a clam. 

Alas for those two loving ones ! she 

waked not from her swound, 
And he was taken with the cramp, and 

in the waves was drowned ; 
But Fate has metamorphosed them, in 

pity of their woe, 
And now they keep an oyster-shop for 

mermaids down below. 



84 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



A NOONTIDE LYRIC. 

The dinner-bell, the dinner-bell 

Is ringing loud and clear ; 
Through hill and plain, through street 
and lane, 

It echoes far and near ; 
Prom curtained hall and whitewashed 
stall, 

"Wherever men can hide, 
Like bursting wares from ocean caves, 

They float upon the tide. 

I smell the smell of roasted meat ! 
I hear the hissing fry ! 

The beggars know where they can go, 
But where, where shall I ? 

At twelve o'clock men took my hand, 
At two they only stare, 

And eye me with a fearful look, 
As if I were a bear ! 

The poet lays his laurels down, 

And hastens to his greens ; 
The happy tailor quits his goose, 

To riot on his beans ; 
The weary cobbler snaps his thread, 

The printer leaves his pi ; 
His very devil hath a home, 

But what, what have I ? 

Methinks I hear an angel voice, 
That softly seems to say : 

II Pale stranger, all may yet be well, 
Then wipe thy tears away ; 

Erect thy head, and cock thy hat, 

And follow me afar, 
And thou shalt have a jolly meal, 

And charge it at the bar." 

I hear the voice ! I go ! I go ! 

Prepare your meat and wine ! 
They little heed their future need, 

Who pay not when they dine. 



Give me to-day the rosy bowl, 
Give me one golden dream, — 

To-morrow kick away the stool, 
And dangle from the beam ! 



THE HOT SEASON. 

The folks, that on the first of May 

Wore winter coats and hose, 
Began to say, the first of June, 

" Good Lord ! how hot it grows I ** 
At last two Fahrenheits blew up, 

And killed two children small, 
And one barometer shot dead 

A tutor with its ball ! 

Now all day long the locusts sang 

Among the leafless trees ; 
Three new hotels warped inside out, 

The pumps could only wheeze ; 
And ripe old wine, that twenty years 

Had cobwebbed o'er in vain, 
Came spouting through the rotten corks, 

Like Joly's best Champagne ! 

The Worcester locomotives did 

Their trip in half an hour ; 
The Lowell cars ran forty miles 

Before they checked the power ; 
Roll brimstone soon became a drug, 

And loco-focos fell ; 
All asked for ice, but everywhere 

Saltpetre was to sell. 

Plump men of mornings ordered tights, 

But, ere the scorching noons, 
Their candle-moulds had grown as loose 

As Cossack pantaloons ! 
The dogs ran mad, — men could not try 

If water they would choose ; 
A horse fell dead, — he only left 

Four red-hot, rusty shoes ! 

But soon the people could not bear 
The slightest hint of fire ; 



A PORTRAIT. — AN EVENING THOUGHT. 



85 



Allusions to caloric drew 

A flood of savage ire ; 
The leaves on heat were all torn out 

From every book at school, 
And many blackguards kicked and 
caned, 

Because they said, " Keep cool ! " 

The gas-light companies were mobbed, 

The bakers all were shot, 
The penny press began to talk 
Of Lynching Doctor Nott ; 
And all about the warehouse steps 

"Were angry men in droves, 
Crashing and splintering through the 
doors 

To smash the patent stoves ! 

The abolition men and maids 

Were tanned to such a hue, 
You scarce could tell them from their 
friends, 

Unless their eyes were blue ; 
And, when I left, society 

Had burst its ancient guards, 
And Brattle Street and Temple Place 

Were interchanging cards ! 



A PORTRAIT. 

\ still sweet, placid, moonlight face, 

And slightly nonchalant, 
Which seems to claim a middle place 

Between one's love and aunt, 
Where childhood's star has left a ray 

In woman's sunniest sky, 
As morning dew and blushing day 

On fruit and blossom lie. 

And yet, — and yet I cannot love 
Those lovely lines on steel ; 

They beam too much of heaven above, 
Earth's darker shades to feel ; 



Perchance some early weeds of care 
Around my heart have grown, 

And brows unfurrowed seem not fair, 
Because they mock my own. 

Alas ! when Eden's gates were sealed, 

How oft some sheltered flower 
Breathed o'er the wanderers of the 
field, 

Like their own bridal bower ; 
Yet, saddened by its loveliness, 

And humbled by its pride, 
Earth's fairest child they could not 
bless, — 

It mocked them when they sighed. 



AN EVENING THOUGHT. 

WRITTEN AT SEA. 

If sometimes in the dark blue eye, 

Or in the deep red wine, 
Or soothed by gentlest melody, 

Still warms this heart of mine, 
Yet something colder in the blood, 

And calmer in the brain, 
Have whispered that my youth's bright 
flood 

Ebbs, not to flow again. 

If by Helvetia's azure lake, 

Or Arno's yellow stream, 
Each star of memory could awake, 

As in my first young dream, 
I know that when mine eye shall greet 

The hillsides bleak and bare, 
That gird my home, it will not meet 

My childhood's sunsets there. 

when love's first, sweet, stolen kiss 

Burned on my boyish brow, 
Was that young forehead worn as 
this? 

Was that flushed cheek as now ? 



86 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



"Were that wild pulse and throbbing 
heart 

Like these, which vainly strive, 
In thankless strains of soulless art, 

To dream themselves alive ? 

Alas ! the morning dew is gone, 

Gone ere the full of day ; 
life's iron fetter still is on, 

Its wreaths all torn away ; 
Happy if still some casual hour 

Can warm the fading shrine, 
Too soon to chill beyond the power 

Of love, or song, or wine ! 



THE WASP AND THE HORNET. 

The two proud sisters of the sea, 

In glory and in doom ! — 
Well may the eternal waters be 

Their broad, unsculptured tomb ! 
The wind that rings along the wave, 

The clear, unshadowed sun, 
Are torch and trumpet o'er the brave, 

"Whose last green wreath is won ! 

No stranger-hand their banners furled, 

No victor's shout they heard ; 
Unseen, above them ocean curled, 

Save by his own pale bird ; 
The gnashing billows heaved and fell ; 

"Wild shrieked the midnight gale ; 
Far, far beneath the morning swell 

"Were pennon, spar, and sail. 

The land of Freedom ! Sea and shore 

Are guarded now, as when 
Her ebbing waves to victory bore 

Fair barks and gallant men ; 
many a ship of prouder name 

May wave her starry fold, 
Nor trail, with deeper light of fame, 

The paths they swept of old ! 



"QUI VIVE." 

" Qui vive 1 " The sentry's musket 
rings, 

The channelled bayonet gleams ; 
High o'er him, like a raven's wings 
The broad tricolored banner flings 
Its shadow, rustling as it swings 

Pale in the moonlight beams ; 
Pass on ! while steel-clad sentries keep 
Their vigil o'er the monarch's sleep, 

Thy bare, unguarded breast 
Asks not the unbroken, bristling zone 
That girds yon sceptred trembler's 
throne ; — 

Pass on, and take thy rest ! 

" Qui vive 1 " How oft the midnight 
air 

That startling cry has borne ! 
How oft the evening breeze has fanned 
The banner of this haughty land, 
O'er mountain snow and desert sand, 

Ere yet its folds were torn ! 
Through Jena's carnage flying red, 
Or tossing o'er Marengo's dead, 

Or curling on the towers 
Where Austria's eagle quivers yet, 
And suns the ruffled plumage, wet 

With battle's crimson showers ! 

" Qui vive/" And is the sentry's 
cry,— 

The sleepless soldier's hand, — 
Are these — the painted folds that fly 
And lift their emblems, printed high 
On morning mist and sunset sky — 

The guardians of a land ? 
No ! If the patriot's pulses sleep, 
How vain the watch that hirelings 
keep, — 

The idle flag that waves, 
When Conquest, with his iron heel, 
Treads down the standards and the steel 

That belt the soil of slaves ! 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 




SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



The piping of our slender, peaceful reeds 
Whispers uncared for while the trumpets bray; 
Song is thin air ; our hearts' exulting play- 
Beats time but to the tread of marching deeds, 
Following the mighty van that Freedom leads, 
Her glorious standard naming to the day! 
The crimsoned pavement where a hero bleeds 
Breathes nobler lessons than the poet's lay. 
Strong arms, broad breasts, brave hearts, are better worth 
Than strains that sing the ravished echoes dumb. 
Hark ! 't is the loud reverberating drum 
Rolls o'er the prairied West, the rock-bound North : 
The myriad-handed Future stretches forth 
Its shadowy palms. Behold, we come, — we come ! 

Turn o'er these idle leaves. Such toys as these 
Were not unsought for, as, in languid dreams, 
We lay beside our lotus-feeding streams, 
And nursed our fancies in forgetful ease. 
It matters little if they pall or please, 
Dropping untimely, while the sudden gleams 
Glare from the mustering clouds whose blackness seems 
Too swollen to hold its lightning from the trees. 
Yet, in some lull of passion, when at last 
These calm revolving moons that come and go — 
Turning our months to years, they creep so slow — 
Have brought us rest, the not unwelcome past 
May nutter to thee through these leaflets, cast 
On the wild winds that all around us blow# 
May 1, 1861. 



TO 



THE MOST INDULGENT OF READERS, 
THE KINDEST OF CRITICS, 

MY BELOVED MOTHER, 

LL THAT IS LEAST UNWORTHY OF HER 
IN THIS VOLUME 

BY HER AFFECTIONATE SON. 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



I. -1849-1856. 



AGNES. 

PART FIRST. 
THE KNIGHT. 

The tale I tell is gospel true, 

As all the bookmen know, 
And pilgrims who have strayed to view 

The wrecks still left to show. 

The old, old story, — fair, and young, 
And fond, — and not too wise, — 

That matrons tell, with sharpened 
tongue, 
To maids with downcast eyes. 

Ah ! maidens err and matrons warn 

Beneath the coldest sky ; 
Love lurks amid the tasselled corn 

As in the bearded rye ! 

But who would dream our sober sires 
Had learned the old world's ways, 

And warmed their hearths with lawless 
fires 
In Shirley's homespun days ? 

T is like some poet's pictured trance 

His idle rhymes recite, — 
This old New-England-born romance 

Of Agnes and the Knight ; 



Yet, known to all the country round, 
Their home is standing still, 

Between Wachuset's lonely mound 
And Shawmut's threefold hill. 

— One hour we rumble on the rail, 
One half-hour guide the rein, 

We reach at last, o'er hill and dale, 
The village on the plain. 

"With blackening wall and mossy roof, 
With stained and warping floor, 

A stately mansion stands aloof 
And bars its haughty door. 

This lowlier portal may be tried, 
That breaks the gable wall ; 

And lo ! with arches opening wide, 
Sir Harry Frankland's hall ! 

'T was in the second George's day 
They sought the forest shade, 

The knotted trunks they cleared away, 
The massive beams they laid, 

They piled the rock-hewn chimney talL 
They smoothed the terraced ground, 

They reared the marble-pillared wall 
That fenced the mansion round. 

Far stretched beyond the village bound 
The Master's broad domain ; 



90 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



"With page and valet, horse and hound, 
He kept a goodly train. 

And, all the midland county through, 
The ploughman stopped to gaze 

Whene'er his chariot swept in view 
Behind the shining bays, 

"With mute obeisance, grave and slow, 

Kepaid by nod polite, — 
For such the way with high and low 

Till after Concord fight. 

Nor less to courtly circles known 
That graced the three-hilled town 

"With far-off splendors of the Throne, 
And glimmerings from the Crown ; 

"Wise Phipps, who held the seals of state 

For Shirley over sea ; 
Brave Knowles, whose press-gang moved 
of late 

The King Street mob's decree ; 

And judges grave, and colonels grand, 
Fair dames and stately men, 

The mighty people of the land, 
The " World " of there and then. 

'T was strange no Chloe's "beauteous 
Form," 

And " Eyes' coelestial Blew," 
This Strephon of the West could warm, 

No Nymph his Heart subdue ! 

Perchance he wooed as gallants use, 
Whom fleeting loves enchain, 

But still unfettered, free to choose, 
Would brook no bridle-rein. 

He saw the fairest of the fair, 

But smiled alike on all ; 
No band his roving foot might snare, 

No ring his hand enthrall. 



PART SECOND. 

THE MAIDEN. 



Why seeks the knight that rocky cape 

Beyond the Bay of Lynn ? 
What chance his wayward course may 
shape 



To reach its village inn ? 



No story tells ; whate'er we guess, 

The past lies deaf and still, 
But Fate, who rules to blight or bless, 

Can lead us where she will. 

Make way ! Sir Harry's coach and four, 
And liveried grooms that ride ! 

They cross the ferry, touch the shore 
On Winnisimmet's side. 

They hear the wash on Chelsea Beach, — 

The level marsh they pass, 
Where miles on miles the desert reach 

Is rough with bitter grass. 

The shining horses foam and pant, 

And now the smells begin 
Of fishy Swampscot, salt Nahant, 

And leather-scented Lynn. 

Next, on their left, the slender spires, 
And glittering vanes, that crown, 

The home of Salem's frugal sires, 
The old, witch-haunted town. 

So onward, o'er the rugged way 
That runs through rocks and sand, 

Showered by the tempest-driven spray, 
From bays on either hand, 

That shut between their outstretched 
arms 

The crews of Marblehead, 
The lords of ocean's watery farms, 

Who plough the waves for bread. 



AGNES. 



91 



At last the ancient inn appears, 

The spreading elm below, 
Whose flapping sign these fifty years 

Has seesawed to and fro. 

How fair the azure fields in sight 

Before the low-browed inn ! 
The tumbling billows fringe with light 

The crescent shore of Lynn ; 

Nahant thrusts outward through the 
waves 

Her arm of yellow sand, 
And breaks the roaring surge that braves 

The gauntlet on her hand ; 

With eddying whirl the waters lock 
Yon treeless mound forlorn, 

The sharp-winged sea-fowl's breeding- 
rock, 
That fronts the Spouting Horn ; 

Then free the white-sailed shallops glide, 

And wide the ocean smiles, 
Till, shoreward bent, his streams divide 

The two bare Misery Isles. 

The master's silent signal stays 

The wearied cavalcade ; 
The coachman reins his smoking bays 

Beneath the elm-tree's shade. 

A gathering on the village green ! 

The cocked-hats crowd to see, 
On legs in ancient velveteen, 

With buckles at the knee. 

A clustering round the tavern -door 

Of square-toed village boys, 
Still wearing, as their grandsires wore, 

The old-world corduroys ! 

A scampering at the "Fountain " inn, — 
A rush of great and small, — 

With hurrying servants' mingled din 
And screaming matron's call ! 



Poor Agnes ! with her work half done 

They caught her unaware ; 
As, humbly, like a praying nun, 

She knelt upon the stair ; 

Bent o'er the steps, with lowliest mien 
She knelt, but not to pray, — 

Her little hands must keep them clean, 
And wash their stains away. 

A foot, an ankle, bare and white, 
Her girlish shapes betrayed, — 

"Ha! Nymphs and Graces!" spoke 
the Knight ; 
" Look up, my beauteous Maid !" 

She turned, — a reddening rose in bud, 
Its calyx half withdrawn, — 

Her cheek on fire with damasked blood 
Of girlhood's glowing dawn ! 

He searched her features through and 
through, 

As royal lovers look 
On lowly maidens, when they woo 

Without the ring and book. 

' ' Come hither, Fair one ! Here, my 
Sweet ! 

Nay, prithee, look not down ! 
Take this to shoe those little feet," — 

He tossed a silver crown. 

A sudden paleness struck her brow, — 

A swifter flush succeeds ; 
It burns her cheek ; it kindles now 

Beneath her golden beads. 

She flitted, but the glittering eye 

Still sought the lovely face. 
Who was she ? What, and whence ? and 
why 

Doomed to such menial place ? 

A skipper's daughter, — so they said, — 
Left orphan by the gale 



92 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



That cost the fleet of Marblehead 
And Gloucester thirty sail. 

Ah ! many a lonely home is found 

Along the Essex shore, 
That cheered its goodman outward 
bound, 

And sees his face no more ! 



"Not so," the matron whispered, — 
"sure 

No orphan girl is she, — 
The Surraige folk are deadly poor 

Since Edward left the sea, 

"And Mary, with her growing brood, 

Has work enough to do 
To find the children clothes and food 

"With Thomas, John, and Hugh. 

" This girl of Mary's, growing tall, — 
(Just turned her sixteenth year,) — 

To earn her bread and help them all, 
"Would work as housemaid here." 

So Agnes, with her golden beads, 
And naught beside as dower, 

Grew at the wayside w r ith the weeds, 
Herself a garden-flower. 

'T was strange, 't was sad, — so fresh, so 
fair ! 

Thus Pity's voice began. 
Such grace ! an angel's shape and air ! 

The half-heard whisper ran. 

For eyes could see in George's time, 

As now in later days, 
And lips could shape, in prose and 
rhyme, 

The honeyed breath of praise. 

No time to woo ! The train must go 

Long ere the sun is down, 
To reach, before the night-winds blow, 

The many-steepled town. 



'T is midnight, — street and square are 
still; 

Dark roll the whispering waves 
That lap the piers beneath the hill 

Eidged thick with ancient graves. 

Ah, gentle sleep ! thy hand will smooth 

The weary couch of pain, 
"When all thy poppies fail to soothe 

The lover's throbbing brain ! 

'T is morn, — the orange-mantled sun 
Breaks through the fading gray, 

And long and loud the Castle gun 
Peals o'er the glistening bay. 

" Thank God 't is day ! " "With eager 
eye 

He hails the morning's shine : — 
" If art can win, or gold can buy, 

The maiden shall be mine ! " 



PART THIRD. 

THE CONQUEST. 

""Who saw this hussy when she came? 

"What is the wench, and who ? " 
They whisper. ' ' Agnes, — is her name ? 

Pray what has she to do ? " 

The housemaids parley at the gate, 

The scullions on the stair, 
And in the footmen's grave debate 

The butler deigns to share. 

Black Dinah, stolen when a child, 

And sold on Boston pier, 
Grown up in service, petted, spoiled, 

Speaks in the coachman's ear : 

" "What, all this household at his will ? 

And all are yet too few ? 
More servants, and more servants still, — 

This pert young madam too ! " 



Agues 



AGNES. 



93 



" Servant/ fine servant !" laughed aloud 
The man of coach and steeds ; 

M She looks too fair, she steps too proud, 
This girl with golden heads ! 

" I tell you, you may fret and frown, 
And call her what you choose, 

You '11 find my Lady in her gown, 
Your Mistress in her shoes !" 

Ah, gentle maidens, free from blame, 

God grant you never know 
The little whisper, loud with shame, 

That makes the world your foe ! 

Why tell the lordly flatterer's art, 
That won the maiden's ear, — 

The fluttering of the frightened heart, 
The blush, the smile, the tear ? 

Alas ! it were the saddening tale 
That every language knows, — 

The wooing wind, the yielding sail, 
The sunbeam and the rose. 

And now the gown of sober stuff 
Has changed to fair brocade, 

With broidered hem, and hanging cuff, 
And flower of silken braid ; 

And clasped around her blanching wrist 

A jewelled bracelet shines, 
Her flowing tresses' massive twist 

A glittering net confines ; 

And mingling with their truant wave 

A fretted chain is hung ; 
But ah ! the gift her mother gave, — 

Its beads are all unstrung ! 

Her place is at the master's board, 
Where none disputes her claim ; 

She walks beside the mansion's lord, 
His bride in all but name. 



The busy tongues have ceased to talk, 

Or speak in softened tone, 
So gracious in her daily walk 

The angel light has shown. 

No want that kindness may relieve 

Assails her heart in vain, 
The lifting of a ragged sleeve 

Will check her palfrey's rein. 

A thoughtful calm, a quiet grace 
In every movement shown, 

Reveal her moulded for the place 
She may not call her own. 

And, save that on her youthful brow 
There broods a shadowy care, 

No matron sealed with holy vow 
In all the land so fair ! 



PART FOURTH. 
THE RESCUE. 

A ship comes foaming up the bay, 

Along the pier she glides ; 
Before her furrow melts away, 

A courier mounts and rides. 

"Haste, Haste, post Haste!" the let- 
ters bear ; 

"Sir Harry Frankland, These." 
Sad news to tell the loving pair ! 

The knight must cross the seas. 

"Alas ! we part ! " — the lips that spoke 

Lost all their rosy red, 
As when a crystal cup is broke, 

And all its wine is shed. 

"Nay, droop not thus, — where'er," he 
cried, 

" I go by land or sea, 
My love, my life, my joy, my pride, 

Thy place is still by me 1" 



94 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



Through town and city, far and wide, 
Their wandering feet hare strayed, 

From Alpine lake to ocean tide, 
And cold Sierra's shade. 

At length they see the waters gleam 

Amid the fragrant bowers 
Where Lisbon mirrors in the stream 

Her belt of ancient towers. 

Red is the orange on its bough, 

To-morrow's sun shall fling 
O'er Cintra's hazel-shaded brow 

The flush of April's wing. 

The streets are loud with noisy mirth, 
They dance on every green ; 

The morning's dial marks the birth 
Of proud Braganza's queen. 

At eve beneath their pictured dome 
The gilded courtiers throng ; 

The broad moidores have cheated Rome 
Of all her lords of song. 

Ah ! Lisbon dreams not of the day — 
Pleased with her painted scenes — 

When all her towers shall slide away 
As now these canvas screens ! 

The spring has passed, the summer fled, 

And yet they linger still, 
Though autumn's rustling leaves have 
spread 

The flank of Cintra's hill. 

The town has learned their Saxon name, 
And touched their English gold, 

Nor tale of doubt nor hint of blame 
From over sea is told. 

Three hours the first November dawn 
Has climbed with feeble ray 

Through mists like heavy curtains drawn 
Before the darkened day. 



How still the muffled echoes sleep ! 

Hark ! hark ! a hollow sound, — 
A noise like chariots rumbling deep 

Beneath the solid ground. 

The channel lifts, the water slides 

And bares its bar of sand, 
Anon a mountain billow strides 

And crashes o'er the land. 

The turrets lean, the steeples reel 
Like masts on ocean's swell, 

And clash a long discordant peal, 
The death-doomed city's knell. 

The pavement bursts, the earth uphenve? 

Beneath the staggering town ! 
The turrets crack — the castle cleaves — 

The spires come rushing down. 

Around, the lurid mountains glow 
With strange unearthly gleams ; 

While black abysses gape below, 
Then close in jagged seams. 

The earth has folded like a wave, 
And thrice a thousand score, 

Clasped, shroudless, in their closing 
grave, 
The sun shall see no more ! 

And all is over. Street and square 

In ruined heaps are piled ; 
Ah ! where is she, so frail, so fair, 

Amid the tumult wild ? 

Unscathed, she treads the wreck-piled 
street, 

Whose narrow gaps afford 
A pathway for her bleeding feet, 

To seek her absent lord. 

A temple's broken walls arrest 
Her wild and wandering eyes ; 

Beneath its shattered portal pressed, 
Her lord unconscious lies. 






AGNES. 



95 



The power that living hearts obey 
Shall lifeless blocks withstand ? 

Love led her footsteps where he lay, — 
Love nerves her woman's hand : 

One cry, — the marble shaft she grasps, — 
Up heaves the ponderous stone : — 

He breathes, — her fainting form he 
clasps, — 
Her life has bought his own ! 



PART FIFTH. 

THE EEWARD. 

How like the starless night of death 

Our being's brief eclipse, 
When faltering heart and failing breath 

Have bleached the fading lips ! 

She lives ! What guerdon shall repay 

His debt of ransomed life ? 
One word can charm all wrongs away, — 

The sacred name of Wife ! 

The love that won her girlish charms 
Must shield her matron fame, 

And write beneath the Frankland arms 
The village beauty's name. 

Go, call the priest ! no vain delay 

Shall dim the sacred ring ! 
Who knows what change the passing day, 

The fleeting hour, may bring ? 

Before the holy altar bent, 
There kneels a goodly pair ; 

A stately man, of high descent, 
A woman, passing fair. 

No jewels lend the blinding sheen 

That meaner beauty needs, 
But on her bosom heaves unseen 

A string of golden beads. 



The vow is spoke, — the prayer is said, — « 

And with a gentle pride 
The Lady Agnes lifts her head, 

Sir Harry Frankland's bride. 

No more her faithful heart shall bear 
Those griefs so meekly borne, — 

The passing sneer, the freezing stare, 
The icy look of scorn ; 

No more the blue-eyed English dames 
Their haughty lips shall curl, 

Whene'er a hissing whisper names 
The poor New England girl. 

But stay ! — his mother's haughty 
brow, — 

The pride of ancient race, — 
Will plighted faith, and holy vow, 

Win back her fond embrace ? 

Too well she knew the saddening tale 

Of love no vow had blest, 
That turned his blushing honors pale 

And stained his knightly crest. 

They seek his Northern home, — alas : 

He goes alone before ; — 
His own dear Agnes may not pass 

The proud, ancestral door. 

He stood before the stately dame ; 

He spoke ; she calmly heard, 
But not to pity, nor to blame ; 

She breathed no single word. 

He told his love, — her faith betrayed ; 

She heard with tearless eyes ; i 
Could she forgive the erring maid ? 

She stared in cold surprise. 

How fond her heart, he told, — how truef 
The haughty eyelids fell ; — 

The kindly deeds she loved to do ; 
She murmured, "It is well." 



96 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



But when lie told that fearful day, 

And how her feet were led 
To where entombed in life he lay, 

The breathing with the dead, 

And how she bruised her tender breasts 

Against the crushing stone, 
That still the strong-armed clown prq- 
tests 

No man can lift alone, — 

then the frozen spring was broke ; 
By turns she wept and smiled ; — 

" Sweet Agnes ! " so the mother spoke, 
"God bless my angel child ! 

"She saved thee from the jaws of 
death, — 
'T is thine to right her wrongs ; 

1 tell thee, — I, who gave thee breath, — 

To her thy life belongs ! " 

Thus Agnes won her noble name, 

Her lawless lover's hand ; 
The lowly maiden so became 

A lady in the land ! 

PART SIXTH. 

CONCLUSION. 

The tale is done ; it little needs 

To track their after ways, 
And string again the golden beads 

Of love's uncounted days. 

They leave the fair ancestral isle 
For bleak New England's shore ; 

How gracious is the courtly smile 
Of all who frowned before ! 

Again through Lisbon's orange bowers 
They watch the river's gleam, 

And shudder as her shadowy towers 
Shake in the trembling stream. 



Fate parts at length the fondest pair ; 

His cheek, alas ! grows pale ; 
The breast that trampling death could 
spare 

His noiseless shafts assail. 

He longs to change the heaven of blue 
For England's clouded sky, — 

To breathe the air his boyhood knew ; 
He seeks them but to die. 

— Hard by the terraced hillside town, 
"Where healing streamlets run, 

Still sparkling with their old renown, — 
The " Waters of the Sun," — 

The Lady Agnes raised the stone 
That marks his honored grave, 

And there Sir Harry sleeps alone 
By Wiltshire Avon's wave. 

The home of early love was dear ; 

She sought its peaceful shade, 
And kept her state for many a year, 

With none to make afraid. 

At last the evil days were come 
That saw the red cross fall ; 

She hears the rebels' rattling drum, — 
Farewell to Frankland Hall ! 

— I tell you, as my tale began, 
The Hall is standing still ; 

And you, kind listener, maid or man, 
May see it if you will. 

The box is glistening huge and green, 

Like trees the lilacs grow, 
Three elms high-arching still are seen, 

And one lies stretched below. 

The hangings, rough with velvet flowers, 

Flap on the latticed wall ; 
And o'er the mossy ridge-pole towers 

The rock-hewn chimney tall. 



THE PLOUGHMAN. 



97 



The doors on mighty hinges clash 

With massive bolt and bar, 
The heavy English-moulded sash 

Scarce can the night- winds jar. 

Behold the chosen room he sought 

Alone, to fast and pray, 
Each year, as chill November brought 

The dismal earthquake day. 

There hung the rapier blade he wore, 
Bent in its flattened sheath ; 

The coat the shrieking woman tore 
Caught in her clenching teeth ; — 

The coat with tarnished silver lace 

She snapped at as she slid, 
And down upon her death- white face 

Crashed the huge coffin's lid. 

A graded terrace yet remains ; 

If on its turf you stand 
And look along the wooded plains 

That stretch on either hand, 

The broken forest walls define 

A dim, receding view, 
"Where, on the far horizon's line, 

He cut his vista through. 

If further story you shall crave, 

Or ask for living proof, 
Go see old Julia, born a slave 

Beneath Sir Harry's roof. 

She told me half that I have told, 

And she remembers well 
The mansion as it looked of old 

Before its glories fell ; — 

The box, when round the terraced square 

Its glossy wall was drawn ; 
The climbing vines, the snow-balls fair, 

The roses on the lawn. 



And Julia says, with truthful look 
Stamped on her wrinkled face, 

That in her own black hands she took 
The coat with silver lace. 

And you may hold the story light, 

Or, if you like, believe ; 
But there it was, the woman's bite, — 

A mouthful from the sleeve. 

Now go your ways ; — I need not tell 

The moral of my rhyme ; 
But, youths and maidens, ponder well 

This tale of olden time ! 



THE PLOUGHMAN. 

ANNIVEKSARY OF THE BERKSHIRE AQ« 
RICULTURAL SOCIETY, OCT. 4, 1849.. 

Clear the brown path, to meet his coul- 
ter's gleam ! 

Lo ! on he comes, behind his smoking 
team, 

"With toil's bright dew-drops on his sun- 
burnt brow, 

The lord of earth, the hero of the plough ! 

First in the field before the reddening 
sun, 

Last in the shadows when the day is 
done, 

Line after line, along the bursting sod, 

Marks the broad acres where his feet 
have trod ; 

Still, where he treads, the stubborn clods 
divide, 

The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and 
wide ; 

Matted and dense the tangled turf up- 
heaves, 

Mellow and dark the ridgy cornfield 
cleaves ; 

Up the steep hillside, where the labor- 
ing train 



98 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



Slants the long track that scores the 
level plain ; 

Through the moist valley, clogged with 
oozing clay, 

The patient convoy breaks its destined 
way; 

At every turn the loosening chains re- 
sound, 

The swinging ploughshare circles glisten- 
ing round, 

Till the wide field one billowy waste ap- 
pears, 

And wearied hands unbind the panting 
steers. 

These are the hands whose sturdy labor 

brings 
The peasant's food, the golden pomp of 

kings ; 
This is the page, whose letters shall be 

seen 
Changed by the sun to words of living 

green ; 
This is the scholar, whose immortal pen 
Spells the first lesson hunger taught to 

men ; 
These are the lines which heaven-com- 
manded Toil 
Shows on his deed, — the charter of the 

soil ! 

gracious Mother, whose benignant 

breast 
Wakes us to life, and lulls us all to rest, 
How thy sweet features, kind to every 

clime, 
Mock with their smile the wrinkled front 

of time ! 
We stain thy flowers, — they blossom 

o'er the dead ; 
We rend thy bosom, and it gives us 

bread ; 
O'er the red field that trampling strife 

has torn, 



Waves the green plumage of thy tasselled 

corn ; 
Our maddening conflicts scar thy fairest 

plain, 
Still thy soft answer is the growing grain. 
Yet, our Mother, while uncounted 

charms 
Steal round our hearts in thine embrac 

ing arms, 
Let not our virtues in thy love decay, 
And thy fond sweetness waste our 

strength away. 

No ! by these hills, whose banners now 

displayed 
In blazing cohorts Autumn has arrayed ; 
By yon twin summits, on whose splin- 
tery crests 
The tossing hemlocks hold the eagles* 

nests ; 
By these fair plains the mountain circle 

screens, 
And feeds with streamlets from its dark 

ravines, — 
True to their home, these faithful arms 

shall toil 
To crown with peace their own untainted 

soil ; 
And, true to God, to freedom, to man- 
kind, 
If her chained bandogs Faction shall 

unbind, 
These stately forms, that bending even 

now 
Bowed their strong manhood to the 

humble plough, 
Shall rise erect, the guardians of the 

land, 
The same stern iron in the same right 

hand, 
Till o'er their hills the shouts of triumph 

run, 
The sword has rescued what the plough* 

share won ! 



PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS. 



99 



PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS. 



1850-56. 



SPRING. 

Winter is past ; the heart of Nature 

warms 
Beneath the wrecks of unresisted storms ; 
Doubtful at first, suspected more than 

seen, 
The southern slopes are fringed with 

tender green ; 
On sheltered banks, beneath the drip- 
ping eaves, 
Spring's earliest nurslings spread their 

glowing leaves, 
Bright with the hues from wider pic- 
tures won, 
White, azure, golden, — drift, or sky, 

or sun, — 
The snowdrop, bearing on her patient 

breast 
The frozen trophy torn from Winter's 

crest ; 
The violet, gazing on the arch of blue 
Till her own iris wears its deepened hue ; 
The spendthrift crocus, bursting through 

the mould 
Naked and shivering with his cup of gold. 
Swelled with new life, the darkening 

elm on high 
Prints her thick buds against the spotted 

sky; 
On all her boughs the stately chestnut 

cleaves 
The gummy shroud that wraps her 

embryo leaves ; 
The house-fly, stealing from his narrow 

grave, 



Drugged with the opiate that November 

gave, 
Beats with faint wing against the sunny 

pane, 
Or crawls, tenacious, o'er its lucid plain ; 
From shaded chinks of lichen-crusted 

walls, 
In languid curves, the gliding serpent 

crawls ; 
The bog's green harper, thawing from 

his sleep, 
Twangs a hoarse note and tries a short- 
ened leap ; 
On floating rails that face the softening 

noons 
The still shy turtles range their dark 

platoons, 
Or, toiling aimless o'er the mellowing 

fields, 
Trail through the grass their tessellated 

shields. 

At last young April, ever frail and fair, 
Wooed by her playmate with the golden 

hair, 
Chased to the margin of receding floods 
O'er the soft meadows starred with open- 
ing buds, 
In tears and blushes sighs herself away, 
And hides her cheek beneath the flowers 
of May. 

Then the proud tulip lights her beacon 
blaze, 
Her clustering curls the hyacinth dis- 
plays ; 



UofC 



100 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



O'er her tall blades the crested fleur-de- 
lis, 

Like blue-eyed Pallas, towers erect and 
free ; 

With yellower flames the lengthened 
sunshine glows, 

And love lays bare the passion -breathing 
rose ; 

Queen of the lake, along its reedy verge 

The rival lily hastens to emerge, 

Her snowy shoulders glistening as she 
strips, 

Till morn is sultan of her parted lips. 

Then bursts the song from every leafy 

glade, 
The yielding season's bridal serenade ; 
Then flash the wings returning Summer 

calls 
Through the deep arches of her forest 

halls, — 
The bluebird, breathing from his azure 

plumes 
The fragrance borrowed where the myrtle 

blooms ; 
The thrush, poor wanderer, dropping 

meekly down, 
Clad in his remnant of autumnal brown ; 
The oriole, drifting like a flake of fire 
Rent by a whirlwind from a blazing 

spire. 
The robin, jerking his spasmodic throat, 
Repeats, imperious, his staccato note ; 
The crack-brained bobolink courts his 

crazy mate, 
Poised on a bulrush tipsy with his 

weight ; 
Nay, in his cage the lone canary sings, 
Feels the soft air, and spreads his idle 

wings. 

Why dream I here within these caging 
walls, 
Deaf to her voice, while blooming Na- 
ture calls; 



Peering and gazing with insatiate looks 
Through blinding lenses, or in wearying 

books ? 
Off, gloomy spectres of the shrivelled 

past! 
Fly with the leaves that fill the autumn 

blast ! 
Ye imps of Science, whose relentless 

chains 
Lock the warm tides within these living 

veins, 
Close your dim cavern, while its captive 

strays 
Dazzled and giddy in the morning's 

blaze! 



THE STUDY. 

Yet in the darksome crypt I left so 
late, 

Whose only altar is its rusted grate, — 

Sepulchral, rayless, joyless as it seems, 

Shamed by the glare of May's refulgent 
beams, — 

While the dim seasons dragged their 
shrouded train, 

Its paler splendors were not quite in 
vain. 

From these dull bars the cheerful fire- 
light's glow 

Streamed through the casement o'er the 
spectral snow ; 

Here, while the night- wind wreaked its 
frantic will 

On the loose ocean and the rock -bound 
hill, 

Rent the cracked topsail from its quiver- 
ing yard, 

And rived the oak a thousand storms 
had scarred, 

Fenced by these walls the peaceful taper 
shone, 

Nor felt a breath to slant its trembling 
cone. 



PICTURES FKOM OCCASIONAL POEMS. 



101 



Not all unblest the mild interior scene 
When the red curtain spread its falling 

screen ; 
O'er some light task the lonely hours 

were past, 
And the long evening only flew too fast ; 
Or the wide chair its leathern arms would 

lend 
In genial welcome to some easy friend, 
Stretched on its bosom with relaxing 

nerves, 
Slow moulding, plastic, to its hollow 

curves ; 
Perchance indulging, if of generous 

creed, 
In brave Sir Walter's dream-compelling 

weed. 
Or, happier still, the evening hour would 

bring 
To the round table its expected ring, 
And while the punch-bowl's sounding 

depths were stirred, — 
Its silver cherubs smiling as they 

heard, — 
Our hearts would open, as at evening's 

hour 
The close-sealed primrose frees its hid- 
den flower. 

Such the warm life this dim retreat 

has known, 
Not quite deserted when its guests were 

flown ; 
Nay, filled with friends, an unobtrusive 

set, 
Guiltless of calls and cards and etiquette, 
Ready to answer, never known to ask, 
Claiming no service, prompt for every 

task. 

On those dark shelves no housewife 
hand profanes, 
O'er his mute files the monarch folio 
reigns; 



A mingled race, the wreck of chance 

and time, 
That talk all tongues and breathe of 

every clime, 
Each knows his place, and each may 

claim his part 
In some quaint corner of his master's 

heart. 
This old Decretal, won from Kloss's 

hoards, 
Thick -leaved, brass - cornered, ribbed 

with oaken boards, 
Stands the gray patriarch of the graver 

rows, 
Its fourth ripe century narrowing to its 

close ; 
Not daily conned, but glorious still to 

view, 
With glistening letters wrought in red 

and blue. 
There towers Stagira's all-embracing 

sage, 
The Aldine anchor on his opening page ; 
There sleep the births of Plato's heavenly 

mind, 
In yon dark tomb by jealous clasps con- 
fined, 
"Olim e libris" (dare I call it mine ?) 
Of Yale's grave Head and Killingworth's 

divine ! 
In those square sheets the songs of Maro 

fill 
The silvery types of smooth-leaved Bas- 

kerville ; 
High over all, in close, compact array, 
Their classic wealth the Elzevirs display. 
In lower regions of the sacred space 
Range the dense volumes of a humbler 

race ; 
There grim chirurgeons all their mys- 
teries teach, 
In spectral pictures, or in crabbed 

speech ; 
Harvey and Haller, fresh from Nature's 

page, 



102 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



Shoulder the dreamers of an earlier age, 
Lully and Geber, and the learned crew 
That loved to talk of all they could not 

do. 
Why count the rest, — those names of 

later days 
That many love, and all agree to 

praise, — 
Or point the titles, where a glance may 

read 
The dangerous lines of party or of creed ? 
Too well, perchance, the chosen list 

would show 
What few may care and none can claim 

to know. 
Each has his features, whose exterior seal 
A brush may copy, or a sunbeam steal ; 
Go to his study, — on the nearest shelf 
Stands the mosaic portrait of himself. 

What though for months the tranquil 
dust descends, 

Whitening the heads of these mine an- 
cient friends, 

While the damp offspring of the modern 
press 

Flaunts on my table with its pictured 
dress ; 

Not less I love each dull familiar face, 

Nor less should miss it from the ap- 
pointed place ; 

I snatch the book, along whose burning 
leaves 

His scarlet web our wild romancer 
weaves, 

Yet, while proud Hester's fiery pangs I 
share, 

My old Magnalia must be standing 
there! 

THE BELLS. 

When o'er the street the morning peal 
is flung 
From yon tall belfry with the brazen 
tongue, 



Its wide vibrations, wafted by the gale, 
To each far listener tell a different tale. 
The sexton, stooping to the quivering 

floor 
Till the great caldron spills its brassy 

roar, 
Whirls the hot axle, counting, one by 

one, 
Each dull concussion, till his task is 

done. 
Toil's patient daughter, when the wel- 
come note 
Clangs through the silence from the 

steeple's throat, 
Streams, a white unit, to the checkered 

street, 
Demure, but guessing whom she soon 

shall meet ; 
The bell, responsive to her secret flame, 
With every note repeats her lover's 

name. 
The lover, tenant of the neighboring 

lane, 
Sighing, and fearing lest he sigh in vain, 
Hears the stern accents, as they come 

and go, 
Their only burden one despairing No ! 
Ocean's rough child, whom many a 

shore has known 
Ere homeward breezes swept him to his 

own, 
Starts at the echo as it circles round, 
A thousand memories kindling with the 

sound ; 
The early favorite's unforgotten charms, 
Whose blue initials stain his tawny 

arms ; 
His first farewell, the flapping canvas 

spread, 
The seaward streamers crackling over- 
head, 
His kind, pale mother, not ashamed to 

weep 
Her first-born's bridal with the haggard 

deep, 



PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS. 



103 



While the brave father stood with tear- 
less eye, 
Smiling and choking with his last good- 

by. 

T is but a wave, whose spreading cir- 
cle beats, 

With the same impulse, every nerve it 
meets, 

Yet who shall count the varied shapes 
that ride 

On the round surge of that aerial tide ! 

child of earth ! If floating sounds 
like these 

Steal from thyself their power to wound 
or please, 

If here or there thy changing will in- 
clines, 

As the bright zodiac shifts its rolling 
signs, 

Look at thy heart, and when its depths 
are known 

Then try thy brother's, judging by thine 
own, 

But keep thy wisdom to the narrower 
range, 

While its own standards are the sport of 
change, 

Nor count us rebels when we disobey 

The passing breath that holds thy pas- 
sion's sway. 



NON-RESISTANCE. 

Perhaps too far in these considerate 

days 
Has patience carried her submissive 

ways ; 
Wisdom has taught us to be calm and 

meek, 
To take one blow, and turn the other 

cheek ; 
It is not written what a man shall do, 
If the rude caitiff smite the other too ! 



Land of our fathers, in thine hour of 
need 

God help thee, guarded by the passive 
creed ! 

As the lone pilgrim trusts to beads and 
cowl, 

When through the forest rings the gray 
wolf's howl ; 

As the deep galleon trusts her gilded 
prow 

When the black corsair slants athwart 
her bow ; 

As the poor pheasant, with his peaceful 
mien, 

Trusts to his feathers, shining golden- 
green, 

When the dark plumage with the crim- 
son beak 

Has rustled shadowy from its splintered 
peak, — 

So trust thy friends, whose babbling 
tongues would charm 

The lifted sabre from thy foeman's arm, 

Thy torches ready for the answering peal 

From bellowing fort and thunder- 
freighted keel ! 



THE MORAL BULLY. 

Yon whey-faced brother, who delights 
to wear 

A weedy flux of ill-conditioned hair, 

Seems of the sort that in a crowded 
place 

One elbows freely into smallest space ; 

A timid creature, lax of knee and hip, 

Whom small disturbance whitens round 
the lip ; 

One of those harmless spectacled ma- 
chines, 

The Holy- Week of Protestants convenes ; 

Whom school-boys question if their walk 
transcends 

The last advices of maternal friends ; 



104 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



Whom John, obedient to his master's 

sign, 
Conducts, laborious, up to ninety-nine, 
While Peter, glistening with luxurious 

scorn, 
Husks his white ivories like an ear of 

corn ; 
Dark in the brow and bilious in the 

cheek, 
Whose yellowish linen flowers but once 

a week, 
Conspicuous, annual, in their threadbare 

suits, 
And the laced high-lows which they call 

their boots 
Well mayst thou shun that dingy front 

severe, 
But him, stranger, him thou canst not 

fear! 

Be slow to judge, and slower to de- 
spise, 
Man of broad shoulders and heroic 

size ! 
The tiger, writhing from the boa's rings, 
Drops at the fountain where the cobra 

stings. 
In that lean phantom, whose extended 

glove 
Points to the text of universal love, 
Behold the master that can tame thee 

down 
To crouch, the vassal of his Sunday 

frown ; 
His velvet throat against thy corded 

wrist, 
His loosened tongue against thy doubled 

fist! 

The Moral Bully, though he never 
swears, 

Nor kicks intruders down his entry 
stairs, 

Though meekness plants his backward- 
sloping hat, 



And non-resistance ties his white cravat, 

Though his black broadcloth glories to 
be seen 

In the same plight with Shylock's gaber- 
dine, 

Hugs the same passion to his narrow 
breast 

That heaves the cuirass on the trooper's 
chest, 

Hears the same hell-hounds yelling in 
his rear 

That chase from port the maddened buc- 
caneer, 

Feels the same comfort while his acrid 
words 

Turn the sweet milk of kindness into 
curds, 

Or with grim logic prove, beyond de- 
bate, 

That all we love is worthiest of our 
hate, 

As the scarred ruffian of the pirate's 
deck, 

When his long swivel rakes the stagger- 
ing wreck ! 

Heaven keep us all ! Is every rascal 

clown 
Whose arm is stronger free to knock us 

down? 
Has every scarecrow, whose cachectic 

soul 
Seems fresh from Bedlam, airing on pa= 

role, 
Who, though he carries but a doubtful 

trace 
Of angel visits on his hungry face, 
From lack of marrow or the coins to 

pay, 

Has dodged some vices in a shabby 

way, 
The right to stick us with his cutthroat 

terms, 
And bait his homilies with his brothel 

worms ? 



PICTUEES FEOM OCCASIONAL POEMS. 



105 



THE MIND'S DIET. 

No life worth naming ever comes to 

good 
If always nourished on the selfsame 

food ; 
The creeping mite may live so if he please, 
And feed on Stilton till he turns to cheese, 
But cool Magendie proves beyond a 

doubt, 
\f mammals try it, that their eyes drop 

out. 

No reasoning natures find it safe to 

feed, 
For their sole diet, on a single creed ; 
It spoils their eyeballs* while it spares 

their tongues, 
And starves the heart to feed the noisy 

lungs. 

When the first larvse on the elm are 

seen, 
The crawling wretches, like its leaves, 

are green ; 
Ere chill October shakes the latest down, 
They, like the foliage, change their tint 

to brown ; 
On the blue flower a bluer flower you spy, 
You stretch to pluck it — 't is a butter- 

fly; 

The flattened tree-toads so resemble bark, 

They 're hard to find as Ethiops in the 
dark ; 

The woodcock, stiffening to fictitious 
mud, 

Cheats the young sportsman thirsting for 
his blood ; 

So by long living on a single lie, 

Nay, on one truth, will creatures get its 
dye; 

Red, yellow, green, they take their sub- 
ject's hue. — 

Except when squabbling turns them 
black and blue ! 



OUR LIMITATIONS. 

We trust and fear, we question and 

believe, 
From life's dark threads a trembling 

faith to weave, 
Frail as the web that misty night has 

spun, 
Whose dew-gemmed awnings glitter in 

the sun. 
While the calm centuries spell their les- 
sons out, 
Each truth we conquer spreads the realm 

of doubt ; 
When Sinai's summit was Jehovah's 

throne, 
The chosen Prophet knew his voice 

alone ; 
When Pilate's hall that awful question 

heard, 
The Heavenly Captive answered not a 

word. 

Eternal Truth ! beyond crur hopes and 

fears 
Sweep the vast orbits of thy myriad 

spheres ! 
From age to age, while History carves 

sublime 
On her waste rock the flaming curve- of 

time, 
How the wild swayings of our planet 

show 
That worlds unseen surround the world 

we know. 



THE OLD PLAYER. 

The curtain rose ; in thunders long 

and loud 
The galleries rung; the veteran actor 

bowed. 
In flaming line the telltales of the stage 
Showed on his brow the autograph of 

age; 



105 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



Pale, hueless waves amid his clustered 

hair, 
And umbered shadows, prints of toil 

and care; 
Round the wide circle glanced his vacant 

eye, — 
He strove to speak, — his voice was but 

a sigh. 

Year after year had seen its short- 
lived race 
Flit past the scenes and others take their 

place ; 
Yet the old prompter watched his accents 

still, 
His name still flaunted on the evening's 

bill 
Heroes, the monarchs of the scenic floor, 
Had died in earnest and were heard no 

more; 
Beauties, whose cheeks such roseate 

bloom o'erspread 
They faced the footlights in unborrowed 

red, 
Had faded slowly through successive 

shades 
To gray duennas, foils of younger maids ; 
Sweet voices lost the melting tones that 

start 
"With Southern throbs the sturdy Saxon 

heart, 
While fresh sopranos shook the painted 

sky 
With their long, breathless, quivering 

locust-cry. 
Yet there he stood, — the man of other 

days, 
In the clear present's full, unsparing 

blaze, 
A.s on the oak a faded leaf that clings 
While a new April spreads its burnished 

wings. 

How bright yon rows that soared in 
triple tier, 



Their central sun the flashing chandelier ! 
How dim the eye that sought with 

doubtful aim 
Some friendly smile it still might dare 

to claim ! 
How fresh these hearts ! his own how 

worn and cold ! 
Such the sad thoughts that long-drawn 

sigh had told. 
No word yet faltered on his trembling 

tongue ; 
Again, again, the crashing galleries rung. 
As the old guardsman at the bugle's blast 
Hears in its strain the echoes of the past ; 
So, as the plaudits rolled and thundered 

round, 
A life of memories startled at the sound. 
He lived again, — the page of earliest 

days, — 
Days of small fee and parsimonious 

praise ; 
Then lithe young Romeo — hark that 

silvered tone, 
From those smooth lips — alas ! they 

were his own. 
Then the bronzed Moor, with all his 

love and woe, 
Told his strange tale of midnight melt- 
ing snow ; 
And dark-plumed Hamlet, with his 

cloak and blade, 
Looked on the royal ghost, himself a 

shade. 
All in one flash, his youthful memories 

came, 
Traced in bright hues of evanescent 

flame, 
As the spent swimmer's in the lifelong 

dream, 
While the last bubble rises through the 

stream. 

Call him not old, whose visionary 
brain 
Holds o'er the past its undivided reign. 



PICTURES FEOM OCCASIONAL POEMS. 



107 



For him in vain the envious seasons roll 
Who bears eternal summer in his soul. 
If yet the minstrel's song, the poet's lay, 
Spring with her birds, or children at 

their play, 
Or maiden's smile, or heavenly dream 

of art, 
Stir the few life-drops creeping round 

his heart, 
Turn to the record where his years are 

told, — 
Count his gray hairs, — they cannot 

make him old ! 
What magic power has changed the 

faded mime ? 
One breath of memory on the dust of 

time. 
As the last window in the buttressed wall 
Of some gray minster tottering to its fall, 
Though to the passing crowd its hues 

are spread, 
A dull mosaic, yellow, green, and red, 
Viewed from within, a radiant glory 

shows 
When through its pictured screen the 

sunlight flows, 
And kneeling pilgrims on its storied pane 
See angels glow in every shapeless stain ; 
So streamed the vision through his 

sunken eye, 
Clad in the splendors of his morsing sky. 
All the wild hopes his eager boyhood 

knew, 
All the young fancies riper years proved 

true, 
The sweet, low-whispered words, the 

winning glance 
From queens of song, from Houris of 

the dance, 
Wealth's lavish gift, and Flattery's 

soothing phrase, 
And Beauty's silence when her blush 

was praise, 
And melting Pride, her lashes wet with 

tears, 



Triumphs and banquets, wreaths and 

crowns and cheers, 
Pangs of wild joy that perish on the 

tongue, 
And all that poets dream, but leave 

unsung! 

In every heart some viewless founts 

are fed 
From far-off hillsides where the dews 

were shed; 
On the worn features of the weariest face 
Some youthful memory leaves its hidden 

trace, 
As in old gardens left by exiled kings 
The marble basins tell of hidden springs, 
But, gray with dust, and overgrown with 

weeds, 
Their choking jets the passer little heeds, 
Till time's revenges break their seals 

away, 
And, clad in rainbow light, the waters 

play. 

Good night, fond dreamer! let the 

curtain fall : 
The world 's a stage, and we are players 

all. 
A strange rehearsal! Kings without 

their crowns, 
An d threadbare lords, and jewel- wear- 
ing clowns, 
Speak the vain words that mock their 

throbbing hearts, 
As Want, stern prompter ! spells them 

out their parts. 
The tinselled hero whom we praise and pay 
Is twice an actor in a twofold play. 
We smile at children when a painted 

screen 
Seems to their simple eyes a real scene ; 
Ask the poor hireling, who has left his 

throne 
To seek the cheerless home he calls his 

own, 



108 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



Which of his double lives most real 

seems, 
The world of solid fact or scenic dreams ? 
Canvas, or clouds, — the footlights, or 

the spheres, — 
The play of two short hours, or seventy 

years ? 
Dream on ! Though Heaven may woo 

our open eyes, 
Through their closed lids we look on 

fairer skies; 
Truth is for other worlds, and hope for 

this; 
The cheating future lends the present's 

bliss ; 
Life is a running shade, with fettered 

hands, 
That chases phantoms over shifting 

sands ; 
Death a still spectre on a marble seat, 
With ever clutching palms and shackled 

feet ; 
The airy shapes that mock life's slender 

chain, 
The flying joys he strives to clasp in vain, 
Death only grasps; to live is to pur- 
sue, — 
Dream on ! there 's nothing but illusion 

true ! 



THE ISLAND RUIN. 

Ye that have faced the billows and 

the spray 
Of good St. Botolph's island-studded 

bay, 
As from the gliding bark your eye has 

scanned 
The beaconed rocks, the wave-girt hills 

of sand, 
Have ye not marked one elm-o'ershad- 

owed isle, 
Round as the dimple chased in beauty's 

smile, — 



A stain of verdure on an azure field, 
Set like a jewel in a battered shield? 

Fixed in the narrow gorge of Ocean's 
path, 

Peaceful it meets him in his hour of 
wrath ; 

When the mailed Titan, scourged by 
hissing gales, 

Writhes in his glistening coat of clash- 
ing scales; 

The storm-beat island spreads its tran- 
quil green, 

Calm as an emerald on an angry queen. 
So fair when distant should be fairer 
near; 

A boat shall waft us from the out- 
stretched pier. 

The breeze blows fresh; we reach the 
island's edge, 

Our shallop rustling through the yield- 
ing sedge. 
No welcome greets us on the desert 
isle ; 

Those elms, far-shadowing, hide no 
stately pile: 

Yet these green ridges mark an ancient 
road; 

And lo ! the traces of a fair abode ; 

The long gray line that marks a garden- 
wall, 

And heaps of fallen beams, — fire- 
branded all. 

Who sees unmoved, a ruin at his feet, 
The lowliest home where human hearts 

have beat ? 
Its hearthstone, shaded with the bistre 

stain 
A century's showery torrents wash in 

vain ; 
Its starving orchard, where the thistle 

blows 
And mossy trunks still mark the broken 

rows; 
Its chimney-loving poplar, oftenest seen 



PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS. 



109 



Next an old roof, or where a roof has 

"been; 
Its knot-grass, plantain, — all the social 

•weeds, 
Man's mute companions, following where 

he leads ; 
Its dwarfed, pale flowers, that show their 

straggling heads, 
Sown by the wind from grass-choked 

garden-beds ; 
Its woodbine, creeping where it used to 

climb ; 
Its roses, breathing of the olden time ; 
All the poor shows the curious idler sees, 
As life's thin shadows waste by slow 

degrees, 
Till naught remains, the saddening tale 

to tell, 
Save home's last wrecks, — the cellar 

and the well ! 

And whose the home that strews in 

black decay 
The one green-glowing island of the bay ? 
Some dark-browed pirate's, jealous of 

the fate 
That seized the strangled wretch of 

"Nix's Mate"? 
Some forger's, skulking in a borrowed 

name, 
Whom Tyburn's dangling halter yet 

may claim? 
Some wan-eyed exile's, wealth and sor- 
row's heir, 
Who sought a lone retreat for tears and 

prayer ? 
Some brooding poet's, sure of deathless 

fame, 
Had not his epic perished in the flame ? 
Or some gray wooer's, whom a girlish 

frown 
Chased from his solid friends and sober 

town ? 
Or some plain tradesman' s, fond of shade 

and ease, 



Who sought them both beneath these 

quiet trees ? 
Why question mutes no question can 

unlock, 
Dumb as the legend on the Dighton rock? 
One thing at least these ruined heaps 

declare, — 
They were a shelter once ; a man lived 

there. 

But where the charred and crumbling 

records fail, 
Some breathing lips may piece the half- 
told tale; 
No man may live with neighbors such 

as these, 
Though girt with walls of rock and angry 

seas, 
And shield his home, his children, or 

his wife, 
His ways, his means, his vote, his creed, 

his life, 
From the dread sovereignty of Ears and 

Eyes 
And the small member that beneath 

them lies. 
They told strange things of that mys- 
terious man ; 
Believe who will, deny them such as can ; 
Why should we fret if every passing sail 
Had its old seaman talking on the rail ? 
The deep-sunk schooner stuffed with 

Eastern lime, 
Slow wedging on, as if the waves were 

slime ; 
The knife-edged clipper with her ruffled 

spars, 
The pawing steamer with her mane of 

stars, 
The bull-browed galliot butting through 

the stream, 
The wide-sailed yacht that slipped along 

her beam, 
The deck-piled sloops, the pinched che- 

bacco-boats, 



110 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



The frigate, black with thunder-freighted 

throats, 
All had their talk about the lonely man ; 
And thus, in varying phrase, the story 

ran. 
His name had cost him little care to 

seek, 
Plain, honest, brief, a decent name to 

speak, 
Common, not vulgar, just the kind that 

slips 
With least suggestion from a stranger's 

lips. 
His birthplace England, as his speech 

might show, 
Or his hale cheek, that wore the red- 
streak's glow ; 
His mouth sharp-moulded ; in its mirth 

or scorn 
There came a flash as from the milky corn, 
When from the ear you rip the rustling 

sheath, 
A*nd the white ridges show their even 

teeth. 
His stature moderate, but his strength 

confessed, 
In spite of broadcloth, by his ample 

breast ; 
Full-armed, thick-handed ; one that 

had been strong, 
And might be dangerous still, if things 

went wrong. 
He lived at ease beneath his elm-trees' 

shade, 
Did naught for gain, yet all his debts 

were paid ; 
Rich, so 'twas thought, but careful of 

his store ; 
Had all he needed, claimed to have no 

more. 

But some that lingered round the isle 
at night 
Spoke of strange stealthy doings in their 
sight ; 



Of creeping lonely visits that he made 
To nooks and corners, with a torch and 

spade. 
Some said they saw the hollow of a cave ; 
One, given to fables, swore it was a grave ; 
Whereat some shuddered, others boldly 

cried, 
Those prowling boatmen lied, and knew 

they lied. 
They said his house was framed with 

curious cares, 
Lest some old friend might enter un- 
awares ; 
That on the platform at his chamber's 

door 
Hinged a loose square that opened 

through the floor; 
Touch the black silken tassel next the 

bell, 
Down, with a crash, the napping trap- 
door fell; 
Three stories deep the falling wretch 

would strike, 
To writhe at leisure on a boarder's pike. 
By day armed always ; double-armed 

at night, 
His tools lay round him; wake him 

such as might. 
A carbine hung beside his India fan, 
His hand could reach a Turkish ataghan ; 
Pistols, with quaint-carved stocks and 

barrels gilt, 
Crossed a long dagger with a jewelled 

hilt; 
A slashing cutlass stretched along the 

bed ; — 
All this was what those lying boatmen 

said. 
Then some were full of wondrous sto- 
ries told 
Of great oak chests and cupboards full of 

gold; 
Of the wedged ingots and the silver 

bars 
That cost old pirates ugly sabre-scars; 



PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS. 



Ill 



How his laced wallet often would dis- 
gorge 

The fresh-faced guinea of an English 
George, 

Or sweated ducat, palmed by Jews of 
yore, 

Or double Joe, or Portuguese moidore, 

And how his finger wore a rubied ring 

Fit for the white-necked play-girl of a 
king. 

But these fine legends, told with staring 
eyes, 

Met with small credence from tho old 
and wise. 

Why tell each idle guess, each whisper 
vain? 

Enough : the scorched and cindered 
beams remain. 

He came, a silent pilgrim to the West, 

Somr old-world mystery throbbing in 
his breast ; 

Close to the thronging mart he dwelt 
alone ; 

He lived ; he died. The rest is all un- 
known. 

Stranger, whose eyes the shadowy isle 

survey, 
As the black steamer dashes through 

the bay, 
Why ask his buried secret to divine ? 
He was thy brother ; speak, and tell us 

thine ! 



THE BANKER'S DINNER. 

The Banker's dinner is the stateliest 

feast 
The town has heard of for a year, at 

least ; 
The sparry lustres shed their broadest 

blaze, 
Damask and silver catch and spread the 

rays' 



The florist's triumphs crown the daintier 
spoil 

Won from the sea, the forest, or the soil ; 

The steaming hot-house yields its largest 
pines, 

The sunless vaults unearth their oldest 
wines ; 

With one admiring look the scene sur- 
vey, 

And turn a moment from the bright dis- 
play. 

Of all the joys of earthly pride or 

power, 
What gives most life, worth living, in 

an hour? 
When Victory settles on the doubtful 

fight 
And the last foeman wheels in panting 

flight, 
No thrill like this is felt beneath the 

sun ; 
Life's sovereign moment is a battle won. 
But say what next ? To shape a Senate's 

choice, 
By the strong magic of the master's 

voice ; 
To ride the stormy tempest of debate 
That whirls the wavering fortunes of the 

state. 
Third in the list, the happy lover's 

prize 
Is won by honeyed words from women's 

eyes. 
If some would have it first instead of 

third, 
So let it be, — I answer not a word. 
The fourth, — sweet readers, let the 

thoughtless half 
Have its small shrug and inoffensive 

laugh ; 
Let the grave quarter wear its virtuous 

frown, 
The stern half-quarter try to scowl ue 

down; 



112 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



But the last eighth, the choice and 
sifted few, 

Will hear my words, and, pleased, con- 
fess them true. 

Among the great whom Heaven has 

made to shine, 
How few have learned the art of arts, - - 

to dine ! 
Nature, indulgent to our daily need, 
Kind-hearted mother ! taught us all to 

feed; 
But the chief art, — how rarely Nature 

flings 
This choicest gift among her social 

kings ! 
Say, man of truth, has life a brighter 

hour 
Than waits the chosen guest who knows 

his power ? 
He moves with ease, itself an angel 

charm, — 
Lifts with light touch my lady's jewelled 

arm, 
Slides to his seat, half leading and half 

led, 
Smiling but quiet till the grace is said, 
Then gently kindles, while by slow de- 
grees 
Creep softly out the little arts that 

please ; 
Bright looks, the cheerful language of 

the eye, 
The neat, crisp question and the gay 

re Pty> — 
Talk light and airy, such as well may 

pass 
Between the rested fork and lifted 

glass; — 
With play like this the earlier evening 

flies, 
Till rustling silks proclaim the ladies 

rise. 
His hour has come, — he looks along 

the chairs, 



As the Great Duke surveyed his iron 
squares. 

— That 's the young traveller, — is n't 

much to show, — 
Fast on the road, but at the table slow. 

— Next him, — you see the author in 

his look, — 
His forehead lined with wrinkles like a 

book, — 
Wrote the great history of the ancient 

Huns, — 
Holds back to fire among the heavy 

guns. 

— 0, there 's our poet seated at his side, 
Beloved of ladies, soft, cerulean-eyed. 
Poets are prosy in their common talk, 
As the fast trotters, for the most part, 

walk. 

— And there 's our well-dressed gentle- 

man, who sits, 
By right divine, no doubt, among the 

wits, 
Who airs his tailor's patterns when he 

walks, 
The man that often speaks, but never 

talks. 
Why should he talk, whose presence 

lends a grace 
To every table where he shows his face ? 
He knows the manual of the silver fork, 
Can name his claret — if he sees the 

cork, — 
Remark that "White-top" was consid- 
ered fine, 
But swear the "Juno" is the better 

wine ; — 
Is not this talking? Ask Quintilian's 

rules ; 
If they say No, the town has many fools. 

— Pause for a moment, — for our eyes 

behold 
The plain unsceptred king, the man of 

gold, 
The thrice illustrious threefold million* 

naire; 



PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS. 



113 



Mark his slow-creeping, dead, metallic 
stare i 

His eyes, dull glimmering, like the bal- 
ance-pan 

That weighs its guinea as he weighs his 
man. 

— Who 's next ? An artist, in a satin tie 
Whose ample folds defeat the curious 

eye. 

— And there's the cousin, —must be 

asked, you know, — 
Looks like a spinster at a baby-show. 
Hope he is cool, — they set him next 

the door, — 
And likes his place, between the gap 

and bore. 

— Next comes a Congress-man, distin- 

guished guest ! 

We don't count him, — they asked him 
with the rest ; 

And then some white cravats, with well- 
shaped ties, 

And heads above them which their 
owners prize. 

Of all that cluster round the genial 
board, 

Not one so radiant as the banquet's lord. 

Some say they fancy, but they know not 
why, 

A shade of trouble brooding in his 
eye, 

Nothing, perhaps, — the rooms are over- 
hot, — 

Vet see his cheek, — the dull-red burn- 
ing spot, — 

Taste the brown sherry which he does 
not pass, — 

Ha! That is brandy; see him fill his 
glass ! 
But not forgetful of his feasting 
friends, 

To each in turn some lively word he 
sends ; 

See how he throws his baited lines about, 



And plays his men as anglers play their 
trout. 

With the dry sticks all bonfires are 

begun; 
Bring the first fagot, proser number one ! 
A question drops among the listening 

crew 
And hits the traveller, pat on Tiin- 

buctoo. 
We 're on the Niger, somewhere near its 

source, — 
Not the least hurry, take the river's 

course 
Through Kissi, Foota, Kankan, Bamma- 

koo, 
Bambarra, Sego, so to Timbuctoo, 
Thence down to Youri ; — stop him if 

we can, 
We can't fare worse, — wake up the 

Congress-man ! 
The Congress-man, once on his talking 

legs, 
Stirs up his knowledge to its thickest 

dregs ; 
Tremendous draught for dining men to 

quaff! 
Nothing will choke him but a purpling 

laugh. 
A word, — a shout, — a mighty roar, — 

*t is done ; 
Extinguished ; lassoed by a treacherous 

pun. 
A laugh is priming to the loaded soul ; 
The scattering shots become a steady 

roll, 
Broke by sharp cracks that run along 

the line, 
The light artillery of the talker's wine. 
The kindling goblets flame with golden 

dews, 
The hoarded flasks their tawny fire dif- 
fuse, 
And the Rhine's breast-milk gushes cold 

and bright, 



114 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



Pale as the moon and maddening as her 

light ; 
"With crimson juice the thirsty southern 

sky 
Sucks from the hills where buried armies 

lie, 
So that the dreamy passion it imparts 
Is drawn from heroes' bones and lovers' 

hearts. 
But lulls will come ; the flashing soul 

transmits 
Its gleams of light in alternating fits. 
The shower of talk that rattled down 

amain 
Ends in small patterings like an April's 

rain ; 
The voices halt ; the game is 8ft a stand ; 
Now for a solo from the master-hand ! 
'T is but a story, — quite a simple 

thing, — 
An aria touched upon a single string, 
But every accent comes with such a 

grace 
The stupid servants listen in their place, 
Each with his waiter in his lifted hands, 
Still as a well-bred pointer when he 

stands. 
A query checks him : " Is he quite ex- 
act?"— 
(This from a grizzled, square-jawed man 

of fact.) 
The sparkling story leaves him to his 

fate, 
Crushed by a witness, smothered with 

a date, 
As a swift river, sown with many a 

star, 
Runs brighter, rippling on a shallow 

bar. 
The smooth divine suggests a graver 

doubt ; 
A neat quotation bowls the parson out ; 
Then, sliding gayly from his own dis- 
play, 
He laughs the learned dulness all away. 



So, with the merry tale and jovial 

song, 
The jocund evening whirls itself along, 
Till the last chorus shrieks its loud en~ 

core, 
And the white neckcloths vanish 

through the door. 

One savage word ! — The menials 

know its tone, 
And slink away ; the master stands 

alone. 
"Well played, by — "; breathe not 

what were best unheard ; 
His goblet shivers while he speaks the 

word, — 
" If wine tells truth, — and so have said 

the wise, — 
It makes me laugh to think how brandy 

lies ! 
Bankrupt to-morrow, — millionnaire to- 
day,— 
The farce is over, — now begins the 

play!" 
The spring he touches lets a panel 

glide ; 
An iron closet lurks beneath the slide, 
Bright with such treasures as a search 

might bring 
From the deep pockets of a truant king. 
Two diamonds, eyeballs of a God of 

bronze, 
Bought from his faithful priest, a pious 

Bonze ; 
A string of brilliants ; rubies, three or 

four ; 

Bags of old coin and bars of virgin ore ; 

A jewelled poniard and a Turkish knife, 

Noiseless and useful if we come to strife. 

Gone ! As a pirate flies before the 

wind, 
And not one tear for all he leaves be- 
hind ! 
From all the love his better years have 

known 



PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS. 



115 



Fled like a t'elon, — ah ! but not alone ! 

The chariot flashes through a lantern's 
glare, — 

the wild eyes ! the storm of sable 
hair ! 

Still to his side the broken heart will 
cling,— 

The bride of shame, the wife without 
the ring : 

Hark, the deep oath, — the wail of fren- 
zied woe, — 

Lost ! lost to hope of Heaven and peace 
below ! 

He kept his secret ; but the seed of 
crime 

Bursts of itself in God's appointed time. 

The lives he wrecked were scattered far 
and wide ; 

One never blamed nor wept, — she only- 
died. 

None knew his lot, though idle tongues 
would say 

He sought a lonely refuge far away, 

And there, with borrowed name and al- 
tered mien, 

He died unheeded, as he lived unseen. 

The moral market had the usual chills 

Of Virtue suffering from protested bills ; 

The White Cravats, to friendship's mem- 
ory true, 

Sighed for the past, surveyed the future 
too ; 

Their sorrow breathed in one expressive 
line, — 

" Gave pleasant dinners ; who has got 
his wine ? " 



THE MYSTERIOUS ILLNESS. 

What ailed young Lucius ? Art had 
vainly tried 
To guess his ill, and found herself defied. 
The Augur plied his legendary skill j 



Useless ; the fair young Roman lan- 
guished still. 

His chariot took him every cloudless 
day 

Along the Pincian Hill or Appian Way ; 

They rubbed his wasted limbs with sul- 
phurous oil, 

Oozed from the far-off Orient's heated 
soil ; 

They led him tottering down the steamy 
path 

Where bubbling fountains filled the ther- 
mal bath ; 

Borne in his litter to Egeria's cave, 

They washed hini, shivering, in her icy 
wave. 

They sought all curious herbs and costly 
stones, 

They scraped the moss that grew on dead 
men's bones, 

They tried all cures the votive tablets 
taught, 

Scoured every place whence healing 
drugs were brought, 

O'er Thracian hills his breathless couriers 
ran, 

His slaves waylaid the Syrian caravan. 
At last a servant heard a stranger 
speak 

A new chirurgeon's name ; a clever 
Greek, 

Skilled in his art ; from Pergamus he 
came 

To Rome but lately; Galen was the 
name. 

The Greek was called : a man with pier- 
cing eyes, 

Who must be cunning, and who might 
be wise. 

He spoke but little, — if they pleased, 
he said, 

He 'd wait awhile beside the sufferer's 
bed. 

So by his side he sat, serene and 
calm, 



116 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



His very accents soft as healing balm ; 

Not curious seemed, but every movement 
spied, 

His sharp eyes searching where they 
seemed to glide ; 

Asked a few questions, — what he felt, 
and where ? 

"A pain just here," "A constant beat- 
ing there." 

Who ordered bathing for his aches and 
ails? 

" Charmis, the water- doctor from Mar- 
seilles." 

"What was the last prescription in his 
case? 

"A draught of wine with powdered 
chrysoprase. " 

Had he no secret grief he nursed alone ? 

A pause ; a little tremor ; answer, — 
"None." 
Thoughtful, a moment, sat the cun- 
ning leech, 

And muttered " Eros ! " in his native 
speech. 
In the broad atrium various friends 
await 

The last new utterance from the lips of 
fate ; 

Men, matrons, maids, they talk the 
question o'er, 

And, restless, pace the tessellated floor. 

Not unobserved the youth so long had 
pined 

By gentle-hearted dames and damsels 
kind ; 

One with the rest, a rich Patrician's 
pride, 

The lady Hermia, called "the golden- 
eyed " ; 

The same the old Proconsul fain must 
woo, 

Whom, one dark night, a masked sicarius 
slew; 

The same black Crassus over roughly 
pressed 



To hear his suit, — the Tiber knows the 
rest. 

(Crassus was missed next morning by his 
set ; 

Next week the fishers found him in their 
net.) 

She with the others paced the ample 
hall, 

Fairest, alas ! and saddest of them all. 
At length the Greek declared, with 
puzzled face, 

Some strange enchantment mingled in 
the case, 

And naught would serve to act as counter- 
charm 

Save a warm bracelet from a maiden's 
arm. 

Not every maiden's, — many might be 
tried ; 

Which not in vain, experience must de- 
cide. 

Were there no damsels willing to at- 
tend 

And do such service for a suffering friend ? 
The message passed among the waiting 
crowd, 

First in a whisper, then proclaimed 
aloud. 

Some wore no jewels ; some were disin- 
clined, 

For reasons better guessed at than de- 
fined ; 

Though all were saints, — at least pro- 
fessed to be, — 

The list all counted, there were named 
but three. 
The leech, still seated by the patient's 
side, 

Held his thin wrist, and watched him, 
eagle-eyed. 
Aurelia first, a fair-haired Tuscan girl, 

Slipped off her golden asp, with eyes of 
pearl. 

His solemn head the grave physician 
shook ; 



PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS. 



117 



The waxen features thanked her with a 
look. 
Olympia next, a creature half divine, 

Sprung from the blood of old Evander's 
line, 

Held her white arm, that wore a twisted 
chain 

Clasped with an opal-sheeny cymophane. 

In va,in, daughter ! said the baffled 
Greek. 

The patient sighed the thanks he could 
not speak. 
Last, Hermia entered ; look, that sud- 
den start ! 

The pallium heaves above his leaping 
heart ; 

The beating pulse, the cheek's rekindled 
flame, 

Those quivering lips, the secret all pro- 
claim. 

The deep disease long throbbing in the 
breast, 

The dread enchantment, all at once con- 
fessed ! 

The case was plain ; the treatment was 
begun ; 

And Love soon cured the mischief he had 
done. 

Young Love, too oft thy treacherous 

bandage slips 
Down from the eyes it blinded to the 

lips ! 
Ask not the Gods, youth, for clearer 

sight, 
But the bold heart to plead thy cause 

aright. 
And thou, fair maiden, when thy lovers 

sigh, 
Suspect thy flattering ear, but trust 

thine eye ; 
And learn this secret from the tale of 

old: 
No love so true as love that dies un- 
told. 



A MOTHER'S SECRET. 

How sweet the sacred legend — if 

unblamed 
In my slight verse such holy things are 

named — 
Of Mary's secret hours of hidden joy, 
Silent, but pondering on her wondrous 

boy! 
Ave, Maria ! Pardon, if I wrong 
Those heavenly words that shame my 

earthly song ! 
The choral host had closed the Angel's 

strain 
Sung to the listening watch on Bethle- 
hem's plain, 
And now the shepherds, hastening on 

their way, 
Sought the still hamlet where the Infant 

lay. 
They passed the fields that gleaning 

Ruth toiled o'er, — 
They saw afar the ruined threshing- 
floor 
Where Moab's daughter, homeless and 

forlorn, 
Found Boaz slumbering by his heaps of 

corn; 
And some remembered how the holy 

scribe, 
Skilled in the lore of every jealous tribe, 
Traced the warm blood of Jesse's royal 

son 
To that fair alien, bravely wooed and 

won. 
So fared they on to seek the promised 

sign, 
That marked the anointed heir of 

David's line. 
At last, by forms of earthly semblance 

led, 
They found the crowded inn, the oxen's 

shed. 
No pomp was there, no glory shone 

around 



118 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



On the coarse straw that strewed the 
reeking ground; 

One dim retreat a nickering torch be- 
trayed, — 

In that poor cell the Lord of Life was 
laid! 
The wondering shepherds told their 
breathless tale 

Of the bright choir that woke the sleep- 
ing vale ; 

Told how the skies with sudden glory 
flamed, 

Told how the shining multitude pro- 
claimed, 

"Joy, joy to earth! Behold the hal- 
lowed morn ! 

In David's city Christ the Lord is born ! 

' Glory to God ! ' let angels shout on high, 

'Good- will to men !' the listening earth 
reply ! " 
They spoke with hurried words and 
accents wild; 

£alm in his cradle slept the heavenly 
child. 

No trembling word the mother's joy re- 
vealed, — 

One sigh of rapture, and her lips were 
sealed ; 

Unmoved she saw the rustic train depart, 

But kept their words to ponder in her 
heart. 

Twelve years had passed ; the boy was 
fair and tall, 

Growing in wisdom, finding grace with 
all. 

The maids of Nazareth, as they trooped 
to fill 

Their balanced urns beside the moun- 
tain rill, 

The gathered matrons, as they sat and 
spun, 

Spoke in soft words of Joseph's quiet 
son. 

No voice had reached the Galilean vale 



Of star-led kings, or awe-struck shep* 

herd's tale ; 
In the meek, studious child they only saw 
The future Rabbi, learned in Israel's law. 
So grew the boy, and now the feast 

was near 
When at the Holy Place the tribes 

appear. 
Scarce had the home-bred child of 

Nazareth seen 
Beyond the hills that girt the village 

green ; 
Save when at midnight, o'er the starlit 

sands, 
Snatched from the steel of Herod's mur- 
dering bands, 
A babe, close folded to his mother's 

breast, 
Through Edom's wilds he sought the 

sheltering West. 
Then Joseph spake : " Thy boy hath 

largely grown ; 
Weave him fine raiment, fitting to be 

shown ; 
Fair robes beseem the pilgrim, as the 

priest : 
Goes he not with us to the holy feast ? " 
And Mary culled the flaxen fibres 

white ; 
Till eve she spun ; she spun till morn- 
ing light. 
The thread was twined ; its parting 

meshes through 
From hand to hand her restless shuttle 

flew, 
Till the full web was wound upon the 

beam; 
Love's curious toil, — a vest without a 

seam! 
They reach the Holy Place, fulfil the 

days 
To solemn feasting given, and grateful 

praise. 
At last they turn, and far Moriah's 

height 



PICTUEES FKOM OCCASIONAL POEMS. 



119 



Melts in the southern sky and fades 

from sight. 
All day the dusky caravan has flowed 
In devious trails along the winding road ; 
(For many a step their homeward path 

attends, 
And all the sons of Abraham are as 

friends.) 
Evening has come, — the hour of rest 

and joy, — 
Hush! Hush! That whisper,— "Where 

is Mary's boy?" 
weary hour! aching days that 

passed 
Filled with strange fears each wilder 

than the last, — 
The soldier's lance, the fierce centurion's 

sword, 
The crushing wheels that whirl some 

Eoman lord, 
The midnight crypt that sucks the cap- 
tive's breath, 
The blistering sun on Hinnom's vale of 

death ! 
Thrice on his cheek had rained the 

morning light ; 
Thrice on his lips the mildewed kiss of 

night, 
Crouched by a sheltering column's shin- 
ing plinth, 
Or stretched beneath the odorous tere- 
binth. 
At last, in desperate mood, they 

sought once more 
The Temple's porches, searched in vain 

before ; 
They found him seated with the ancient 

men, — 
The grim old rufflers of the tongue and 

pen, — 
Their bald heads glistening as they 

clustered near, 
Their gray beards slanting as they 

turned to hear, 
Lost in half-envious wonder and surprise 



That lips so fresh should utter words so 

wise. 
And Mary said, — as one who, tried 

too long, 
Tells all her grief and half her sense of 

wrong, — 
" What is this thoughtless thing which 

thou hast done ? 
Lo, we have sought thee sorrowing, 

my son!" 
Few words he spake, and scarce of 

filial tone, 
Strange words, their sense a mystery 

yet unknown ; 
Then turned with them and left the 

holy hill, 
To all their mild commands obedient 

still. 
The tale was told to Nazareth's sober 

men, 
And Nazareth's matrons told it oft 

again ; 
The maids retold it at the fountain's 

side, 
The youthful shepherds doubted or 

denied ; 
It passed around among the listening 

friends, 
With all that fancy adds and fiction 

lends, 
Till newer marvels dimmed the young 

renown 
Of Joseph's son, who talked the Rabbis 

down. 
But Mary, faithful to its lightest word, 
Kept in her heart the sayings she had 

heard, 
Till the dread morning rent the Tem- 
ple's veil, 
And shuddering earth confirmed the 

wondrous tale. 

Youth fades ; love droops ; the leaves 

of friendship fall : 
A mother's secret hope outlives them alL 



120 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



THE DISAPPOINTED STATESMAN. 

"Who of all statesmen is his country's 

pride, 
Her councils' prompter and her leaders' 

guide ? 
He speaks ; the nation holds its breath 

to hear ; 
He nods, and shakes the sunset hemi- 
sphere. 
Born where the primal fount of Nature 

springs 
By the rude cradles of her throneless 

kings, 
In his proud eye her royal signet flames, 
By his own lips her Monarch she pro- 
claims. 
"Why name his countless triumphs, 

whom to meet 
Is to be famous, envied in defeat ? 
The keen- debaters, trained to brawls 

and strife, 
"Who fire one shot, and finish with the 

knife, 
Tried him but once, and, cowering in 

their shame, 
Ground their hacked blades to strike at 

meaner game. 
The lordly chief, his party's central stay, 
"Whose lightest word a hundred votes 

obey, 
Found a new listener seated at his side, 
Looked in his eye, and felt himself defied, 
Flung his rash gauntlet on the startled 

floor, 
Met the all- conquering, fought — and 

ruled no more. 
See where he moves, what eager 

crowds attend ! 
"What shouts of thronging multitudes 

ascend ! 
If this is life, — to mark with every hour 
The purple deepening in his robes of 

power, 
To see the painted fruits of honor fall 



Thick at his feet, and choose among 

them all, 
To hear the sounds that shape his 

spreading name 
Peal through the myriad organ-stops of 

fame, 
Stamp the lone isle that spots the sea« 

man's chart, 
And crown the pillared glory of the mart, 
To count as peers the few supremely wise 
"Who mark their planet in the angels' 

eyes, — 

If this is life — 

"What savage man is he 

"Who strides alone beside the sounding 

sea? 
Alone he wanders by the murmuring 

shore, 
His thoughts as restless as the waves 

that roar ; 
Looks on the sullen sky as stormy- 
browed 
As on the waves yon tempest-brooding 

cloud, 
Heaves from his aching breast a wailing 

sigh, 
Sad as the gust that sweeps the clouded 

sky. 
Ask him his griefs ; wliat midnight de- 
mons plough 
The lines of torture on his lofty brow ; 
Unlock those marble lips, and bid them 

speak 
The mystery freezing in his bloodless 

cheek. 
His secret ? Hid beneath a flimsy 

word; 
One foolish whisper that ambition heard ; 
And thus it spake : " Behold yon gilded 

chair, 
The world's one vacant throne, — thy 

place is there!" 
Ah, fatal dream ! "What warning 

spectres meet 
In ghastly circle round its shadowy seat \ 



PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS. 



121 



Yet still the Tempter murmurs in his ear 

The maddening taunt he cannot choose 
but hear : 

" Meanest of slaves, by gods and men 
accurst, 

He who is second when he might be first ! 

Climb with bold front the ladder's top- 
most round, 

Or chain thy creeping footsteps to the 
ground ! " 
Illustrious Dupe ! Have those majes- 
tic eyes 

Lost their proud fire for such a vulgar 
prize ? 

Art thou the last of all mankind to know 

That party -fights are won by aiming low ? 

Thou, stamped by Nature with her royal 
sign, 

That party-hirelings hate a look like 
thine ? 

Shake from thy sense the wild delusive 
dream ! 

Without the purple, art thou not su- 
preme ? 

And soothed by love unbought, thy 
heart shall own 

Anation's homage nobler than its throne ! 



THE SECRET OF THE STARS. 

Is man's the only throbbing heart that 
hides 

The silent spring that feeds its whisper- 
ing tides ? 

Speak from thy caverns, mystery-breed- 
ing Earth, 

Tell the half-hinted story of thy birth, 

And calm the noisy champions who have 
thrown 

The book of types against the book of 
stone ! 

Have ye not secrets, ye refulgent 
spheres, 



No sleepless listener of the starlight 

hears ? 
In vain the sweeping equatorial pries 
Through every world-sown corner of the 

skies, 
To the far orb that so remotely strays 
Our midnight darkness is its noonday 

blaze ; 
In vain the climbing soul of creeping 

man 
Metes out the heavenly concave with a 

span, 
Tracks into space the long-lost meteor's 

trail, 
And weighs an unseen planet in the 

scale ; 
Still o'er their doubts the waneyed 

watchers sigh, 
And Science lifts her still unanswered 

cry: 
' ' Are all these worlds, that speed their 

circling flight, 
Dumb, vacant, soulless, — bawbles of 

the night ? 
Warmed with God's smile and wafted 

by his breath, 
To weave in ceaseless round the dance 

of Death ? 
Or rolls a sphere in each expanding zone, 
Crowned with a life as varied as our 

own?" 

Maker of earth and stars ! If thou 

hast taught 
By what thy voice hath spoke, thy hand 

hath wrought, 
By all that Science proves, or guesses 

true, 
More than thy Poet dreamed, thy prophet 

knew, — 
The heavens still bow in darkness at thy 

feet, 
And shadows veil thy cloud -pavilioned 

seat ! 
Not for ourselves we ask thee to reveal 



122 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



One awful word beneath the future's seal ; 
What thou shalt tell us, grant us strength 

to bear ; 
What thou withholdest is thy single 

care. 
Not for ourselves ; the present clings too 

fast, 
Moored to the mighty anchors of the 

past ; 
But when, with angry snap, some cable 

parts, 
The sound re-echoing in our startled 

hearts, — 
When, through the wall that clasps the 

harbor round, 
And shuts the raving ocean from its 

bound, 
Shattered and rent by sacrilegious hands, 
The first mad billow leaps upon the 

sands, — 
Then to the Future's awful page we 

turn, 
And what we question hardly dare to 

learn. 
Still let us hope ! for while we seem 

to tread 
The time-worn pathway of the nations 

dead, 
Though Sparta laughs at all our warlike 

deeds, 
And buried Athens claims our stolen 

creeds, 
Though Rome, a spectre on her broken 

throne, 
Beholds our eagle and recalls her own, 
Though England fling her pennons on 

the breeze 
And reign before us Mistress of the 

seas, — 
While calm -eyed History tracks us cir- 
cling round 
Fate's iron pillar where they all were 

bound, 
She sees new beacons crowned with 

brighter flame 



Than the old watch-fires, like, but not 
the same ! 

Still in our path a larger curve she 
finds, 

The spiral widening as the chain un- 
winds ! 

No shameless haste shall spot with ban- 
dit-crime 

Our destined empire snatched before its 
time. 

Wait, — wait, undoubting, for the winds 
have caught 

From our bold speech the heritage of 
thought ; 

No marble form that sculptured truth 
can wear 

Vies with the image shaped in viewless 
air; 

And thought unfettered grows through 
speech to deeds, 

As the broad forest marches in its 
seeds. 

What though we perish ere the day is 
won? 

Enough to see its glorious work begun ! 

The thistle falls before a trampling 
clown, 

But who can chain the flying thistle- 
down ? 

Wait while the fiery seeds of freedom 

fly, 

The prairie blazes when the grass is 

dry! 
What arms might ravish, leave to 

peaceful arts, 
Wisdom and love shall win the roughest 

hearts ; 
So shall the angel who has closed for 

man 
The blissful garden since his woes be- 
gan 
Swing wide the golden portals of the 

West, 
And Eden's secret stand at length con« 

fessed ! 



A POEM. 



123 



A POEM. 

DEDICATION OF THE PITTSFIELD CEME- 
TEEY, SEPTEMBER 9, 1850. 

Angel of Death ! extend thy silent reign ! 
Stretch thy dark sceptre o'er this new 

domain ! 
No sable car along the winding road 
Has borne to earth its unresisting load ; 
No sudden mound has risen yet to show 
Where the pale slumberer folds his arms 

below ; 
No marble gleams to bid his memory live 
In the brief lines that hurrying Time 

can give ; 
Yet, Destroyer! from thy shrouded 

throne 
Look on our gift ; this realm is all thine 

own! 

Fair is the scene ; its sweetness oft be- 
guiled 

From their dim paths the children of 
the mid ; 

The dark-haired maiden loved its grassy 
dells, 

The feathered warrior claimed its wooded 
swells, 

Still on its slopes the ploughman's ridges 
show 

The pointed flints that left his fatal bow, 

Chipped with rough art and slow bar- 
barian toil, — 

Last of his wrecks that strews the alien 
soil! 
Here spread the fields that heaped 
their ripened store 

Till the brown arms of Labor held no 
more; 

The scythe's broad meadow with its 
dusky blush ; 

The sickle's harvest with its velvet flush • 

The green-haired maize, her silken 
tresses laid, 

In soft luxuriance, on her harsh brocade ; 



The gourd that swells beneath her toss- 
ing plume ; 

The coarser wheat that rolls in lakes of 
bloom, — 

Its coral stems and milk-white flowers 
alive 

With the wide murmurs of the scattered 
hive; 

Here glowed the apple with the pen- 
cilled streak 

Of morning painted on its southern 
cheek ; 

The pear's long necklace strung with 
golden drops, 

Arched, like the banian, o'er its pillared 
props ; 

Here crept the growths that paid the 
laborer's care 

With the cheap luxuries wealth con- 
sents to spare; 

Here sprang the healing herbs which 
could not save 

The hand that reared them from the 
neighboring grave. 

Yet all its varied charms, forever free 
From task and tribute, Labor yields to 

thee : 
No more, when April sheds her fitful 

rain, 
The sower's hand shall cast its flying 

grain; 
No more, when Autumn strews the 

flaming leaves, 
The reaper's band shall gird its yellow 

sheaves ; 
For thee alike the circling seasons flow 
Till the first blossoms heave the latest 

snow. 
In the stiff clod below the whirling 

drifts, 
In the loose soil the springing herbage 

lifts, 
In the hot dust beneath the parching 

weeds, 



124 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



Life's withering flower shall drop its 

shrivelled seeds; 
Its germ entranced in thy unbreathing 

sleep 
Till what thou sowest mightier angels 

reap! 

Spirit of Beauty ! let thy graces blend 

"With loveliest Nature all that Art can 
lend. 

Come from the bowers where Summer's 
life-blood flows 

Through the red lips of June's half-open 
rose, 

Dressed in bright hues, the loving sun- 
shine's dower ; 

For tranquil Nature owns no mourning 
flower. 
Come from the forest where the beech's 
screen 

Bars the fierce noonbeam with its flakes 
of green ; 

Stay the rude axe that bares the shadowy 
plains, 

Stanch the deep wound that dries the 
maple's veins. 
Come with the stream whose silver- 
braided rills 

Fling their unclasping bracelets from the 
hills, 

Till in one gleam, beneath the forest's 
wings, 

Melts the white glitter of a hundred 
springs. 
Come from the steeps where look ma- 
jestic forth 

From their twin thrones the Giants of 
the North 

On the huge shapes, that, crouching at 
their knees, 

Stretch their broad shoulders, rough with 
shaggy trees. 

Through the wide waste of ether, not in 
vain, 



Their softened gaze shall reach our dis- 
tant plain ; 

There, while the mourner turns his ach- 
ing eyes 

On the blue mounds that print the bluer 
skies, 

Nature shall whisper that the fading 
view 

Of mightiest grief may wear a heavenly 
hue. 

Cherub of "Wisdom ! let thy marble page 
Leave its sad lesson, new to every age ; 
Teach us to live, not grudging every 

breath 
To the chill winds that waft us on to 

death, 
But ruling calmly every pulse it warms, 
And tempering gently every word it 

forms. 
Seraph of Love! in heaven's adoring 

zone, 
Nearest of all around the central throne, 
While with soft hands the pillowed turf 

we spread 
That soon shall hold us in its dreamless 

bed, 
"With the low whisper, — Who shall first 

be laid 
In the dark chamber's yet unbroken 

shade ? — 
Let thy sweet radiance shine rekindled 

here, 
And all we cherish grow more truly dear. 
Here in the gates of Death's o'erhanging 

vault, 
0, teach us kindness for our brother's 

fault ; 
Lay all our wrongs beneath this peaceful 

sod, 
And lead our hearts to Mercy and its 

God. 

Father of all ! in Death's relentless 
claim 



TO GOVERNOR SWAIN". 



125 



We read thy mercy by its sterner name; 

In the bright flower that decks the sol- 
emn bier, 

We see thy glory in its narrowed sphere; 

In the deep lessons that affliction draws, 

We trace the curves of thy encircling 
laws ; 

In the long sigh that sets our spirits free, 

We own the love that calls us back to 
Thee! 

Through the hushed street, along the 

silent plain, 
The spectral future leads its mourning 

train, 
Dark with the shadows of uncounted 

bands, 
Where man's white lips and woman's 

wringing hands 
Track the still burden, rolling slow be- 
fore, 
That love and kindness can protect no 

more ; 
The smiling babe that, called to mortal 

strife, 
Shuts its meek eyes and drops its little 

life ; 
The drooping child who prays in vain to 

live, 
And pleads for help its parent cannot 

give; 
The pride of beauty stricken in its flower ; 
The strength of manhood broken in an 

hour ; 
Age in its weakness, bowed by toil and 

care, 
Traced in sad lines beneath its silvered 

hair. 

The sun shall set, and heaven's re- 
splendent spheres 

Gild the smooth turf unhallowed yet by 
tears, 

But ah ! how soon the evening stars will 
shed 



Their sleepless light around the slum- 
bering dead ! 

Take them, Father, in immortal 
trust ! 
Ashes to ashes, dust to kindred dust, 
Till the last angel rolls the stone away, 
And a new morning brings eternal day ! 



TO GOVERNOR SWAIN. 

Dear Governor, if my skiff might 

brave 
The winds that lift the ocean wave, 
The mountain stream that loops and 

swerves 
Through my broad meadow's channelled 

curves 
Should waft me on from bound to bound 
To where the River weds the Sound, 
The Sound should give me to the Sea, 
That to the Bay, the Bay to Thee. 

It may not be ; too long the track 
To follow down or struggle back. 
The sun has set on fair Naushon 
Long ere my western blaze is gone ; 
The ocean disk is rolling dark 
In shadows round your swinging bark, 
While yet the yellow sunset fills 
The stream that scarfs my spruce-clad 

hills ; 
The day-star wakes your island deer 
Long ere my barnyard chanticleer ; 
Your mists are soaring in the blue 
While mine are sparks of glittering dew. 

It may not be ; would it might, 
Could I live o'er that glowing night ! 
What golden hours would come to life, 
What goodly feats of peaceful strife, — 
Such jests, that, drained of every joke, 
The very bank of language broke, — 
Such deeds, that Laughter nearly died 
With stitches in his belted side ; 



126 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



While Time, caught fast in pleasure's 

chain, 
His double goblet snapped in twain, 
And stood with half in either hand, — 
Both brimming full, — but not of sand ! 

It may not be ; I strive in vain 

To break my slender household chain, — 

Three pairs of little clasping hands, 

One voice, that whispers, not commands. 

Even while my spirit flies away, 

My gentle jailers murmur nay ; 

All shapes of elemental wrath 

They raise along my threatened path ; 

The storm grows black, the waters rise, 

The mountains mingle with the skies, 

The mad tornado scoops the ground, 

The midnight robber prowls around, — 

Thus, kissing every limb they tie, 

They draw a knot and heave a sigh, 

Till, fairly netted in the toil, 

My feet are rooted to the soil. 

Only the soaring wish is free ! — 

And that, dear Governor, flies to thee ! 

PlTTSFIELD, 1851. 

TO AN ENGLISH FRIEND. 

The seed that wasteful autumn cast 
To waver on its stormy blast, 
L©ng o'er the wintry desert tost, 



Its living germ has never lost. 
Dropped by the weary tempest's wing, 
It feels the kindling ray of spring, 
And, starting from its dream of death, 
Pours on the air its perfumed breath. 

So, parted by the rolling flood, 

The love that springs from common 

blood 
Needs but a single sunlit hour 
Of mingling smiles to bud and flower ; 
Unharmed its slumbering life has flown, 
From shore to shore, from zone to 

zone, 
Where summer's falling roses stain 
The tepid waves of Pontchartrain, 
Or where the lichen creeps below 
Katahdin's wreaths of whirling snow. 

Though fiery sun and stiffening cold 
May change the fair ancestral mould, 
No winter chills, no summer drains 
The life-blood drawn from English 

veins, 
Still bearing wheresoe'er it flows 
The love that with its fountain rose, 
Unchanged by space, unwronged by 

time, 
From age to age, from clime to clime J 

1862. 



VIGNETTES. 



127 



VIGNETTES. 



1853. 



AFTER A LECTURE ON WORDSWORTH. 

Come, spread your wings, as I spread 
mine, 

And leave the crowded hall 
For where the eyes of twilight shine 

O'er evening's western wall. 

These are the pleasant Berkshire hills, 

Each with its leafy crown ; 
Hark ! from their sides a thousand rills 

Come singing sweetly down. 

A. thousand rills ; they leap and shine, 
Strained through the shadowy nooks, 

Till, clasped in many a gathering twine, 
They swell a hundred brooks. 

A. hundred brooks, and still they run 
With ripple, shade, and gleam, 

Till, clustering all their braids in one, 
They flow a single stream. 

A bracelet spun from mountain mist, 

A silvery sash unwound, 
With ox-bow curve and sinuous twist 

It writhes to reach the Sound. 

This is my bark, — a pygmy's ship ; 

Beneath a child it rolls ; 
Fear not, — one body makes it dip, 

But not a thousand souls. 

Float we the grassy banks between ; 
Without an oar we glide; 



The meadows, drest in living green, 
Unroll on either side. 

— Come, take the book we love so well, 

And let us read and dream 
We see whate'er its pages tell, 

And sail an English stream. 

Up to the clouds the lark has sprung, 

Still trilling as he flies ; 
The linnet sings as there he sung ; 

The unseen cuckoo cries, 

And daisies strew the banks along, 

And yellow kingcups shine, 
With cowslips, and a primrose throng, 

And humble celandine. 

Ah foolish dream ! when Xature nursed 

Her daughter in the West, 
The fount was drained that opened first ; 

She bared her other breast. 

On the young planet's orient shore 
Her morning hand she tried ; 

Then turned the broad medallion o'er 
And stamped the sunset side. 

Take what she gives, her pine's tall stem, 
Her elm with hanging spray ; 

She wears her mountain diadem 
Still in her own proud way. 

Look on the forests' ancient kings, 
The hemlock's towering pride : 

Yon trunk had thrice a hundred rings, 
And fell before it died. 



128 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



Nor think that Nature saves her bloom 
And slights' our grassy plain ; 

For us she wears her court costume, — 
Look on its broidered train ; 

The lily with the sprinkled dots, 
Brands of the noontide beam ; 

The cardinal, and the blood-red spots, 
Its double in the stream, 

As if some wounded eagle's breast, 
Slow throbbing o'er the plain, 

Had left its airy path impressed 
In drops of scarlet rain. 

Andhark ! andhark ! the woodland rings ; 

There thrilled the thrush's soul ; 
And look ! that flash of flamy wings, — 

The fire-plumed oriole ! 

Above, the hen -hawk swims and swoops, 
Flung from the bright, blue sky ; 

Below, the robin hops, and whoops 
His piercing, Indian cry. 

Beauty runs virgin in the woods 

Eobed in her rustic green, 
And oft a longing thought intrudes, 

As if we might have seen 

Her every finger's every joint 
Einged with some golden line, 

Poet whom Nature did anoint ! 
Had our wild home been thine. 

Yet think not so ; Old England's blood 
Euns warm in English veins ; 

But wafted o'er the icy flood 
Its better life remains : 

Our children know each wildwood smell, 

The bayberry and the fern, 
The man who does not know them well 

Is all too old to learn. 



Be patient ! On the breathing page 
Still pants our hurried past ; 

Pilgrim and soldier, saint and sage, — 
The poet comes the last ! 

Though still the lark- voiced matins ring 
Th| world has known so long ; 

The wood-thrush of the West shall sing 
Earth's last sweet even-song ! 



AFTER A LECTURE ON MOORE. 

Shine soft, ye trembling tears of light 
That strew the mourning skies ; 

Hushed in the silent dews of night 
The harp of Erin lies. 

What though her thousand years have 
past 

Of poets, saints, and kings, — 
Her echoes only hear the last 

That swept those golden strings. 

Fling o'er his mound, ye star-lit bowers, 
The balmiest wreaths ye wear, 

Whose breath has lent your earth-born 
flowers 
Heaven's own ambrosial air. 

Breathe, bird of night, thy softest tone, 

By shadowy grove and rill ; 
Thy song will soothe us while we own 

That his was sweeter still. 

Stay, pitying Time, thy foot for him 
Who gave thee swifter wings, 

Nor let thine envious shadow dim 
The light his glory flings. 

If in his cheek unholy blood 
Burned for one youthful hour, 

'T was but the flushing of the bud 
That blooms a milk-white flower. 



VIGNETTES. 



129 



Take him, kind mother, to thy breast, 
"Who loved thy smiles so well, 

And spread thy mantle o'er his rest 
Of rose and asphodel. 

— The bark has sailed the midnight sea, 

The sea without a shore, 
That waved its parting sign to thee, — 

"A health to thee, Tom Moore ! " 

And thine, long lingering on the strand, 
Its bright-hued streamers furled, 

Was loosed by age, with trembling hand, 
To seek the silent world. 

Not silent ! no, the radiant stars 

Still singing as they shine, 
Unheard through earth's imprisoning 
bars, 

Have voices sweet as thine. 

Wake, then, in happier realms above, 

The songs of bygone years, 
Till angels learn those airs of love 

That ravished mortal ears ! 



AFTER A LECTURE ON KEATS. 

"Purpureos spargam flores." 

The wreath that star-crowned Shelley 

gave 
Is lying on thy Roman grave, 
Yet on its turf young April sets 
Her store of slender violets ; 
Though all the Gods their garlands 

shower, 
I too may bring one purple flower. 
— Alas ! what blossom shall I bring, 
That opens in my Northern spring ? 
The garden beds have all run wild, 
So trim when I was yet a child ; 
Flat plantains and unseemly stalks 
Have crept across the gravel walks ; 
The vines are dead, long { long ago, 
The almond buds no longer blow. 



No more upon its mound I see 
The azure, plume-bound fleur-de-lis ; 
Where once the tulips used to show, 
In straggling tufts the pansies grow; 
The grass has quenched my white-rayed 

gem, 
The flowering " Star of Bethlehem," 
Though its long blade of glossy green 
And pallid stripe may still be seen. 
Nature, who treads her nobles down, 
And gives their birthright to the clown, 
Has sown her base-born weedy things 
Above the garden's queens and kings. 

— Yet one sweet flower of ancient race 
Springs in the old familiar place. 
When snows were melting down the 

vale, 
And Earth unlaced her icy mail, 
And March his stormy trumpet blew, 
And tender green came peeping through, 
I loved the earliest one to seek 
That broke the soil with emerald beak, 
And watch the trembling bells so blue 
Spread on the column as it grew. 
Meek child of earth ! thou wilt not shame 
The sweet, dead poet's holy name ; 
The God of music gave thee birth, 
Called from the crimson-spotted earth, 
Where, sobbing his young life away, 
His own fair Hyacinthus lay. 

— The hyacinth my garden gave 
Shall lie upon that .Roman grave ! 



AFTER A LECTURE ON SHELLEY. 

One broad, white sail in Spezzia's treach- 
erous bay ; 
On comes the blast ; too daring bark, 
beware ! 
The cloud has clasped her ; lo ! it melts 
away; 
The wide, waste waters, but no sail is 
there. 



130 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



Morning : a woman looking on the sea ; 
Midnight : with lamps the long veran- 
da burns ; 
Come, wandering sail, they watch, they 
burn for thee ! 
Suns come and go, alas ! no bark 
returns. 

And feet are thronging on the pebbly 
sands, 

And torches flaring in the weedy caves, 
Where'er the waters lay with icy hands 

The shapes uplifted from their coral 



Vainly they seek ; the idle quest is o'er ; 
The coarse, dark women, with their 
hanging locks, 
And lean, wild children gather from the 
shore 
To the black hovels bedded in the 
rocks. 

But Love still prayed, with agonizing 
wail, 
" One, one last look, ye heaving 
waters, yield ! " 
Till Ocean, clashing in his jointed mail, 
Eaised the pale burden on his level 
shield. 

Slow from the shore the sullen waves 
retire ; 
His form a nobler element shall 
claim ; 
Nature baptized him in ethereal fire, 
And Death shall crown him with a 
wreath of flame. 

Fade, mortal semblance, never to return ; 

Swift is the change within thy crimson 
shroud ; 
Seal the white ashes in the peaceful urn ; 

All else has risen in yon silvery cloud. 



Sleep where thy gentle Adonais lies, 
Whose open page lay on thy dying 
heart, 
Both in the smile of those blue-vaulted 
skies, 
Earth's fairest dome of all divinest 
art. 

Breathe for his wandering soul one pass- 
ing sigh, 
happier Christian, while thine eye 
grows dim, — 
In all the mansions of the house on high, 
Say not that Mercy has not one for 
him! 



AT THE CLOSE OF A COURSE OF 
LECTURES. 

As the voice of the watch to the mari- 
ner's dream ; 

As the footstep of Spring on the ice- 
girdled stream, 

There comes a soft footstep, a whisper, 
to me, — 

The vision is over, — the rivulet free ! 

We have trod from the threshold of tur- 
bulent March, 

Till the green scarf of April is hung on 
the larch, 

And down the bright hillside that wel- 
comes the day, 

We hear the warm panting of beautiful 
May. 

We will part before Summer has opened 

her wing, 
And the bosom of June swells the bodice 

of Spring, 
While the hope of the season lies fresh 

in the bud, 
And the young life of Nature runs warm 

in our blood. 



VIGNETTES. 



131 



It is but a word, and the chain is un- 
bound, 

The bracelet of steel drops unclasped to 
the ground ; 

No hand shall replace it. — it rests 
where it fell, — 

It is but one word that we all know too 
well. 

Yet the hawk with the wildness un- 
tamed in his eye, 

If you free him, stares round ere he 
springs to the sky ; 

The slave whom no longer his fetters 
restrain 

"Will turn for a moment and look at his 
chain. 

Our parting is not as the friendship of 

years, 
That chokes with the blessing it speaks 

through its tears ; 
We have walked in a garden, and, looking 

around, 
Have plucked a few leaves from the 

myrtles we found. 

But now at the gate of the garden we 
stand, 

And the moment has come for unclasp- 
ing the hand ; 

Will you drop it like lead, and in silence 
retreat 

Like the twenty crushed forms from an 
omnibus seat ? 

Nay ! hold it one moment, — the last 

we may share, — 
I stretch it in kindness, and not for my 

fare ; 
You may pass through the doorway in 

rank or in file, 
If your ticket from Nature is stamped 

with a smile. 



For the sweetest of smiles is the smile 

as we part, 
When the light round the lips is a ray 

from the heart ; 
And lest a stray tear from its fountain 

might swell, 
We will seal the bright spring with a 

quiet farewell. 



THE HUDSON. 

AFTER A LECTURE AT ALBANY. 

'T was a vision of childhood that came 
with its dawn, 

Ere the curtain that covered life's day- 
star was drawn ; 

The nurse told the tale when the shad- 
ows grew long, 

And the mother's soft lullaby breathed 
it in song. 

" There flows a fair stream by the hills 

of the west," — 
She sang to her boy as he lay on her 

breast ; 
"Along its smooth margin thy fathers 

have played ; 
Beside its deep waters their ashes are 

laid." 

I wandered afar from the land of my 
birth, 

I saw the old rivers, renowned upon 
earth, 

But fancy still painted that wide-flow- 
ing stream 

With the many-hued pencil of infancy's 
dream. 

I saw the green banks of the castle- 
crowned Rhine, 

Where the grapes drink the moonlight 
and change it to wine ; 



132 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



I stood by the Avon, whose waves as 

they glide 
Still whisper his glory who sleeps at 

their side. 

But my heart would still yearn for the 
sound of the waves 

That sing as they flow by my fore- 
fathers' graves ; 

If manhood yet honors my cheek with a 
tear, 



I care not who sees it, — no blush for it 
here ! 

Farewell to the deep-bosomed stream of 

the West ! 
I fling this loose blossom to float on its 

breast ; 
Nor let the dear love of its children 

grow cold, 
Till the channel is dry where its waters 

have rolled ! 
December, 1854. 



A POEM 

FOR THE MEETING OF THE AMERICAN 
MEDICAL ASSOCIATION AT NEW YORK, 
MAY 5, 1853. 

I hold a letter in my hand, — 

Aflattering letter — more's thepity, — 
By some contriving junto planned, 

And signed per order of Committee ; 
It touches every tenderest spot, — 

My patriotic predilections, 
My well - known — something — don't 
ask what, 

My poor old songs, my kind affec- 
tions. 

They make a feast on Thursday next, 

And hope to make the feasters merry ; 
They own they 're something more per- 
plexed 
For poets than for port and sherry ; — 
They want the men of — (word torn 
out) ; 
Our friends will come with anxious 
faces 
ffo see our blankets off, no doubt, 
And trot us out and show our paces). 



They hint that papers by the score 

Are rather musty kind of rations ; 
They don't exactly mean a bore, 

But only trying to the patience ; 
That such as — you know who I mean — 

Distinguished for their — what d' ye 
call 'em — 
Should bring the dews of Hippocrene 

To sprinkle on the faces solemn. 

— The same old story ; that 's the chaff 
To catch the birds that sing the dit- 
ties ; 
Upon my soul, it makes me laugh 
To read these letters from Commit- 
tees ! 
They 're all so loving and so fair, — 
All for your sake such kind compunc- 
tion, — 
'T would save your carriage half its wear 
To touch its wheels with such an unc- 
tion ! 

"Why, who am I, to lift me here 

And beg such learned folk to listen,— 

To ask a smile, or coax a tear 

Beneath these stoic lids to glisten ? 



A SENTIMENT. 



133 



As well might some arterial thread 
Ask the whole frame to feel it gushing, 

While throbbing fierce from heel to head 
The vast aortic tide was rushing. 

As well some hair-like nerve might strain 

To set its special streamlet going, 
While through the myriad-channelled 
brain 
The burning flood of thought was 
flowing ; 
Or trembling fibre strive to keep 
The springing haunches gathered 
shorter, 
While the scourged racer, leap on leap, 
"Was stretching through the last hot 
quarter ! 

Ah me ! you take the bud that came 

Self-sown in your poor garden's bor- 
ders, 
And hand it to the stately dame 

That florists breed for, all she orders ; 
She thanks you — it was kindly meant — 

{A pale affair, not worth the keep- 
ing,)— 
Good morning ; — and your bud is sent 

To join the tea-leaves used for sweep- 



Not always so, kind hearts and true, — 

For such I know are round me beat- 
ing ; 
Is not the bud I offer you, — 

Fresh gathered for the hour of meet- 
ing, — 
Pale though its outer leaves may be, 

Rose- red in all its inner petals, 
Where the warm life we cannot see — 

The life of love that gave it — settles. 



We meet from regions far away, 
Like rills from distant mountains 
streaming ; 



The sun is on Francisco's bay, 

O'er Chesapeake the lighthouse gleam- 
ing ; 

While summer girds the still bayou 
In chains of bloom, her bridal token, 

Monadnock sees the sky grow blue, 
His crystal bracelet yet unbroken. 

Yet Nature bears the selfsame heart 

Beneath her russet-mantled bosom, 
As where with burning lips apart 

She breathes, and white magnolias 
blossom ; 
The selfsame founts her chalice fill 

With showery sunlight running over, 
On fiery plain and frozen hill, 

On myrtle-beds and fields of clover. 

I give you Home ! its crossing lines 

United in one golden suture, 
And showing every day that shines 

The present growing to the future, — 
A flag that bears a hundred stars 

In one bright ring, with love for 
centre, 
Fenced round with white and crimson 
bars, 

No prowling treason dares to enter 1 

brothers, home may be a word 

To make affection's living treasure — 
The wave an angel might have stirred — 

A stagnant pool of selfish pleasure; 
Home ! It is where the day-star springs 

And where the evening sun reposes, 
Where'er the eagle spreads his wings, 

From northern pines to southern 
roses ! 

A SENTIMENT. 

A triple health to Friendship, Sci- 
ence, Art, 
From heads and hands that own a com- 
mon heart ! 



134 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



Each in its turn the others' willing 

slave, — 
Each in its season strong to heal and save. 



Friendship's blind service, in the hour 
of need, 

Wipes the pale face — and lets the vic- 
tim bleed. 

Science must stop to reason and explain ; 

Art claps his finger on the streaming 
vein. 

But Art's brief memory fails the hand 
at last ; 

Then Science lifts the flambeau of the 
past. 

When both their equal impotence de- 
plore, — 

When Learning sighs, and Skill can do 
no more, — 

The tear of Friendship pours its heav- 
enly balm, 

And soothes the pang no anodyne may 
calm ! 
May 1, 1855. 



THE NEW EDEN. 

MEETING OF THE BERKSHIRE HORTI- 
CULTURAL SOCIETY, AT STOCKBRIDGE, 
SEPT. 13, 1854. 

Scarce could the parting ocean close, 
Seamed by the Mayflower's cleaving 
bow, 
When o'er the rugged desert rose 
The waves that tracked the Pilgrim's 
plough. 

Then sprang from many a rock-strewn 
field 

The rippling grass, the nodding grain, 
Such growths as English meadows yield 

To scanty sun and frequent rain. 



But when the fiery days were done, 
And Autumn brought his purple haze> 

Then, kindling in the slanted sun, 
The hillsides gleamed with golden 
maize. 

The food was scant, the fruits were few : 
A red-streak glistening here and there; 

Perchance in statelier precincts grew 
Some stern old Puritanic pear. 

Austere in taste, and tough at core, 
Its unrelenting bulk was shed, 

To ripen in the Pilgrim's store 

When all the summer sweets were fled. 

Such was his lot, to front the storm 
With iron heart and marble brow, 

Nor ripen till his earthly form 
Was cast from life's autumnal bough. 

— But ever on the bleakest rock 
We bid the brightest beacon glow, 

And still upon the thorniest stock 
The sweetest roses love to blow. 

So on our rude and wintry soil 
We feed the kindling flame of art, 

And steal the tropic's blushing spoil 
To bloom on Nature's ice-clad heart. 

See how the softening Mother's breast 
Warms to her children's patient 
wiles, — 

Her lips by loving Labor pressed 

Break in a thousand dimpling smiles, 

From when the flushing bud of June 
Dawns with its first auroral hue, 

Till shines the rounded harvest-moon, 
And velvet dahlias drink the dew. 

Nor these the only gifts she brings ; 

Look where the laboring orchard 
groans, 
And yields its beryl-threaded strings 

For chestnut burs and hemlock cones. 



THE NEW EDEN. 



135 



Dear though the shadowy maple be, 
And dearer still the whispering pine, 

Dearest yon russet-laden tree 

Browned by the heavy rubbing kine ! 

There childhood flung its rustling stone, 
There venturous boyhood learned to 
climb, — 

How well the early graft was known 
Whose fruit was ripe ere harvest-time ! 

Nor be the Fleming's pride forgot, 
With swinging drops and drooping 
bells, 
Freckled and splashed with streak and 
spot, 
On the wann-breasted, sloping swells ; 

Nor Persia's painted garden-queen, — 
Frail Houri of the trellised wall, — 

Her deep-cleft bosom scarfed with 
green, — 
Fairest to see, and first to fall. 



When man provoked his mortal doom, 
And Eden trembled as he fell, 
When blossoms sighed their last per- 
fume, 
And branches waved their long fare- 
well, 

One sucker crept beneath the gate, 
One seed was wafted o'er the wall, 

One bough sustained his trembling 
weight ; 
These left the garden, — these were all. 

And far o'er many a distant zone 
These wrecks of Eden still are flung : 

The fruits that Paradise hath known 
Are still in earthly gardens hung. 

Yes, by our own unstoried stream 
The pink-white apple-blossoms burst 



That saw the young Euphrates gleam, — 
That Gihon's circling waters nursed. 

For us the ambrosial pear displays 
The wealth its arching branches hold, 

Bathed by a hundred summery days 
In Moods of mingling fire and gold. 

And here, where beauty's cheek of flame 
With morning's earliest beam is fed, 

The sunset-painted peach may claim 
To rival its celestial red. 



— What though in some unmoistened 
vale 

The summer leaf grow brown and sere, 
Say, shall our star of promise fail 

That circles half the rolling sphere, 

From beaches salt with bitter spray, 
O'er prairies green with softest rain, 

And ridges bright with evening's ray, 
To rocks that shade the stonnlesi 
main ? 

If by our slender-threaded streams 
The blade and leaf and blossom die, 

If, drained by noontide's parching 
beams, 
The milky veins of Nature dry, 

See, with her swelling bosom bare, 
Yon wild-eyed Sister in the West, — 

The ring of Empire round her hair, 
The Indian's wampum on her breast I 

We saw the August sun descend, 
Day after day, with blood-red stain, 

And the blue mountains dimly blend 
With smoke- wreaths from the burning 
plain ; 

Beneath the hot Sirocco's wings 
We sat and told the withering hours> 



136 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



Till Heaven unsealed its hoarded springs, 
And bade them leap in flashing showers. 

Yet in our Ishmael's thirst we knew 
The mercy of the Sovereign hand 

"Would pour the fountain's quickening 
dew 
To feed some harvest of the land. 

No flaming swords of wrath surround 
Our second Garden of the Blest ; 

It spreads beyond its rocky bound, 
It climbs Nevada's glittering crest. 

God keep the tempter from its gate ! 

God shield the children, lest they fall 
From their stern fathers' free estate, — 

Till Ocean is its only wall ! 



SEMICENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF 
THE NEW ENGLAND SOCIETY, 

NEW YORK, DEC. 22, 1855. 

New England, we love thee ; no time 

can erase 
From the hearts of thy children the smile 

on thy face. 
'T is the mother's fond look of affection 

and pride, 
As she gives her fair son to the arms of 

his bride. 

His bride may be fresher in beauty's 

young flower ; 
She may blaze in the jewels she brings 

with her dower. 
But passion must chill in Time's pitiless 

blast ; 
The one that first loved us will love to 

the last. 

You have left the dear land of the lake 

and the hill, 
But its winds and its waters will talk 

with you stilL 



"Forget not," they whisper, " your love 

is our debt," 
And echo breathes softly, "We never 

forget." 

The banquet's gay splendors are gleam- 
ing around, 

But your hearts have flown back o'er the 
waves of the Sound ; 

They have found the brown home where 
their pulses were born ; 

They are throbbing their way through 
the trees and the corn. 

There are roofs you remember, — their 

glory is fled ; 
There are mounds in the churchyard, — 

one sigh for the dead. 
There are wrecks, there are ruins, all 

scattered around ; 
But Earth has no spot like that corner 

of ground. 

Come, let us be cheerful, — remember 

last night, 
How they cheered us, and — never mind 

— meant it all right ; 
To-night, we harm nothing, — we love 

in the lump ; 
Here 's a bumper to Maine, in the juice 

of the pump ! 

Here 's to all the good people, wherever 
they be, 

"Who have grown in the shade of the lib- 
erty-tree ; 

"We all love its leaves, and its blossoms 
and fruit, 

But pray have a care of the fence round 
its root. 

"We should like to talk big ; it 's a kind 

of a right, 
"When the tongue has got loose and the 

waistband grown tight ; 



FAREWELL. — FOR THE MEETING OF THE BURNS CLUB. 



137 



But, as pretty Miss Prudence remarked 

to her beau, 
On its own heap of compost, no biddy 

should crow. 

Enough ! There are gentlemen waiting 
to talk, 

Whose words are to mine as the flower 
to the stalk. 

Stand by your old mother whatever be- 
fall ; 

God bless all her children ! Good night 
to you all ! 

FAREWELL. 

TO J. R. LOWELL. 

Farewell, for the bark has her breast 

to the tide, 
And the rough arms of Ocean are 

stretched for his bride; 
The winds from the mountain stream 

over the bay; 
One clasp of the hand, then away and 

away ! 

I see the tall mast as it rocks by the 

shore ; 
The sun is declining, I see it once more ; 
To-day like the blade in a thick-waving 

field, 
To-morrow the spike on a Highlander's 

shield. 

Alone, while the cloud pours its treach- 
erous breath, 

With the blue lips all round her whose 
kisses are death ; 

Ah, think not the breeze that is urging 
her sail 

Has left her unaided to strive with the 
gale. 

There are hopes that play round her, 
like fires on the mast; 



That will light the dark hour till its 
danger has past ; 

There are prayers that will plead with 
the storm when it raves, 

And whisper " Be still ! " to the turbu- 
lent waves. 

Nay, think not that Friendship has 

called us in vain 
To join the fail' ring ere we break it 

again; 
There is strength in its circle, — you 

lose the bright star, 
But its sisters still chain it, though 

shining afar. 

I give you one health in the juice of the 

vine, 
The blood of the vineyard shall mingle 

with mine ; 
Thus, thus let us drain the last dew- 

drops of gold, 
As we empty our hearts of the blessings 

they hold. 

April 29, 1855. 



FOR THE MEETING OF THE BURNS 
CLUB. 

1856. 

The mountains glitter in the snow 

A thousand leagues asunder ; 
Yet here, amid the banquet's glow, 

I hear their voice of thunder ; 
Each giant's ice-bound goblet clinks ; 

A flowing stream is summoned; 
Wachusett to Ben Nevis drinks ; 

Monadnock to Ben Lomond ! 

Though years have clipped the eagle's 
plume 

That crowned the chieftain's bonnet, 
The sun still sees the heather bloom, 

The silver mists lie on it ; 



138 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



With tartan kilt and philibeg, 
What stride was ever bolder 

Than his who showed the naked leg 
Beneath the plaided shoulder ? 

The echoes sleep on Cheviot's hills, 

That heard the bugles blowing 
When down their sides the crimson rills 

With mingled blood were flowing ; 
The hunts where gallant hearts were 
game, 

The slashing on the border, 
The raid that swooped with sword and 
flame, 

Give place to "law and order." 

Not while the rocking steeples reel 

With midnight tocsins ringing, 
Not while the crashing war-notes peal, 

God sets his poets singing ; 
The bird is silent in the night, 

Or shrieks a cry of warning 
While fluttering round the beacon- 
light,— 

But hear him greet the morning ! 

The lark of Scotia's morning sky ! 

Whose voice may sing his praises ? 
With Heaven's own sunlight in his eye, 

He walked among the daisies, 
Till through the cloud of fortune's wrong 

He soared to fields of glory ; 
But left his land her sweetest song 

And earth her saddest story. 

T is not the forts the builder piles 

That chain the earth together ; 
The wedded crowns, the sister isles, 

Would laugh at such a tether ; 
The kindling thought, the throbbing 
words, 

That set the pulses beating, 
Are stronger than the myriad swords 

Of mighty armies meeting. 



Thus while within the banquet glows, 

Without, the wild winds whistle, 
We drink a triple health, — the Rose, 

The Shamrock, and the Thistle ! 
Their blended hues shall never fade 

Till War has hushed his cannon, — 
Close-twined as ocean-currents braid 

The Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon 



ODE FOR WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY. 

CELEBRATION OF THE MERCANTILE LI- 
BRARY ASSOCIATION, FEB. 22, 1856. 

Welcome to the day returning, 

Dearer still as ages flow, 
While the torch of Faith is burning, 

Long as Freedom's altars glow ! 
See the hero whom it gave us 

Slumbering on a mother's breast ; 
For the arm he stretched to save us, 

Be its morn forever blest ! 

Hear the tale of youthful glory, 

While of Britain's rescued band 
Friend and foe repeat the story, 

Spread his fame o'er sea and land, 
Where the red cross, proudly streaming, 

Flaps above the frigate's deck, 
Where the golden lilies, gleaming, 

Star the watch-towers of Quebec. 

Look ! The shadow on the dial 

Marks the hour of deadlier strife ; 
Days of terror, years of trial, 

Scourge a nation into life. 
Lo, the youth, become her leader ! 

All her baffled tyrants yield ; 
Through his arm the Lord hath freed 
her; 

Crown him on the tented field ! 

Vain is Empire's mad temptation ! 
Not for him an earthly crown ! 



BIRTHDAY OF DANIEL WEBSTER. 



139 



He whose sword hath freed a nation ! 

Strikes the offered sceptre down. 
See the throneless Conqueror seated, 

Ruler by a people's choice ; 
See the Patriot's task completed ; 

Hear the Father's dying voice ! 

" By the name that you inherit, 

By the sufferings you recall, 
Cherish the fraternal spirit ; 

Love your country first of all ! 
Listen not to idle questions 

If its bands may be untied ; 
Doubt the patriot whose suggestions 

Strive a nation to divide ! " 

Father ! "We, whose ears have tingled 

"With the discord-notes of shame, — 
We, whose sires their blood have mingled 

In the battle's thunder-flame, — 
Gathering, while this holy morning 

Lights the land from sea to sea, 
Hear thy counsel, heed thy warning ; 

Trust us, while we honor thee ! 



BIRTHDAY OF DANIEL WEBSTER. 

JANUARY 18, 1856. 

When life hath run its largest round 
Of toil and triumph, joy and woe, 

How brief a storied page is found 
To compass all its outward show ! 

The world-tried sailor tires and droops ; 

His flag is rent, his keel forgot ; 
His farthest voyages seem but loops 

That float from life's entangled knot. 

But when within the narrow space 
Some larger soul hath lived and 
wrought, 
Whose sight was open to embrace 
The boundless realms of deed and 
thought, — 



When, stricken by the freezing blast, 
A nation's living pillars fall, 

How rich the storied page, how vast, 
A word, a whisper, can recall ! 

No medal lifts its fretted face, 

Nor speaking marble cheats your eye, 

Yet, while these pictured lines I trace, 
A living image passes by : 

A roof beneath the mountain pines ; 

The cloisters of a hill-girt plain ; 
The front of life's embattled lines ; 

A mound beside the heaving main. 

These are the scenes : a boy appears ; 

Set life's round dial in the sun, 
Count the swift arc of seventy years, 

His frame is dust ; his task is done. 

Yet pause upon the noontide hour, 
Ere the declining sun has laid 

His bleaching rays on manhood's power, 
And look upon the mighty shade. 

No gloom that stately shape can hide, 
No change uncrown its brow ; behold ! 

Dark, calm, large-fronted, lightning- 
eyed, 
Earth has no double from its mould ! 

Ere from the fields by valor won 
The battle-smoke had rolled away, 

And bared the blood-red setting sun, 
His eyes were opened on the day. 

His land was but a shelving strip 
Black with the strife that made it free j 

He lived to see its banners dip 
Their fringes in the Western sea. 

The boundless prairies learned his name, 
His words the mountain echoes knew, 

The Northern breezes swept his fame 
From icy lake to warm bayou. 



140 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



In toil lie lived ; in peace he died ; 

When life's full cycle was complete, 
Put off his robes of power and pride, 

And laid them at his Master's feet. 

His rest is by the storm-swept waves 
Whom life's wild tempests roughly 
tried, 

Whose heart was like the streaming caves 
Of ocean, throbbing at his side. 



Death's cold white hand is like the snow 
Laid softly on the furrowed hill, 

It hides the broken seams below, 
And leaves the summit brighter 
still. 

In vain the envious tongue upbraids ; 

His name a nation's heart shall keep 
Till morning's latest sunlight fades 

On the blue tablet of the deep ! 



THE VOICELESS. — THE PROMISE. 



141 



II. -1857-1861. 



THE VOICELESS. 

We cortnt the broken lyres that rest 
Where the sweet wailing singers 
slumber, 
But o'er their silent sister's breast 
Th* wild-flowers who will stoop to 
number ? 
A. few can touch the magic string, 
And noisy Fame is proud to win 
them : — 
Alas for those that never sing, 
But die with all their music in them ! 

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone 
Whose song has told their hearts' sad 
story, — 
Weep for the voiceless, who have known 
The cross without the crown of glory ! 
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep 

O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, 
Bat where the glistening night-dews 
weep 
On nameless sorrow's churchyard pil- 
low. 

hearts that break and give no sign 

Save whitening lip and fading tresses, 
Till Death pours out his longed-for wine 

Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing 
presses, — 
If singing breath or echoing chord 

To every hidden pang were given, 
What endless melodies were poured, 

As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven ! 

THE TWO STREAMS. 

Behold the rocky wall 
That down its sloping sides 



Pours the swift rain-drops, blending, as 
they fall, 



In rushing river-tides ! 



Yon stream, whose sources run 
Turned by a pebble's edge, 
Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun 
Through the cleft mountain-ledge. 

The slender rill had strayed, 
But for the slanting stone, 
To evening's ocean, 
braid 
Of foam-flecked Oregon. 



with the tangled 



So from the heights of Will 
Life's parting stream descends, 
And, as a moment turns its slender rill, 
Each widening torrent bends, — 

From the same cradle's side, 
From the same mother's knee, — 
One to long darkness and the frozen tide, 
One to the Peaceful Sea ! 



THE PROMISE. 

Not charity we ask, 
Nor yet thy gift refuse ; 
Please thy light fancy with the easy task 
Only to look and choose. 

The little-heeded toy 
That wins thy treasured gold 
May be the dearest memory, holiest joy> 
Of coming years untold. 

Heaven rains on every heart, 
But there its showers divide, 



142 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



The drops of mercy choosing as they part 
The dark or glowing side. 

One kindly deed may turn 
The fountain of thy soul 
To love's sweet day-star, that shall o'er 
thee burn 
Long as its currents roll ! 

The pleasures thou hast planned, — 
"Where shall their memory be 
When the white angel with the freezing 
hand 
Shall sit and watch by thee ? 

Living, thou dost not live, 
If mercy's spring run dry ; 
What Heaven has lent thee wilt thou 
freely give, 
Dying, thou shalt not die ! 

He promised even so ! 
To thee His lips repeat, — 
Behold, the tears that soothed thy 
sister's woe 
Have washed thy Master's feet ! 

March 20, 1859. 

AVIS. 

I mat not rightly call thy name, — 
Alas ! thy forehead never knew 

The kiss that happier children claim, 
Nor glistened with baptismal dew. 

Daughter of want and wrong and woe, 
I saw thee with thy sister-band, 

Snatched from the whirlpool's narrowing 
flow 
By Mercy's strong yet trembling hand. 

— ' ' Avis ! " — With Saxon eye and cheek, 
At once a woman and a child, 

The saint uncrowned I came to seek 
Drew near to greet us, — spoke, and 
smiled. 



God gave that sweet sad smile she wore 
All wrong to shame, all souls to win, — 

A heavenly sunbeam sent before 

Her footsteps through a world of sin. 

— "And who is Avis ? " — Hear the tale 
The calm -voiced matrons gravely 
tell, — 

The story known through all the vale 
Where Avis and her sisters dwell. 

With the lost children running wild, 
Strayed from the hand of human care, 

They find one little refuse child 
Left helpless in its poisoned lair. 

The primal mark is on her face, — 
The chattel-stamp, — the pariah-stain 

That follows still her hunted race, — 
The curse without the crime of Cain. 

How shall our smooth-turned phrase re- 
late 
The little suffering outcast's ail ? 
Not Lazarus at the rich man's gate 
So turned the rose-wreathed revellers 
pale. 

Ah, veil the living death from sight 
That wounds our beauty-loving eye ! 

The children turn in selfish fright, 
The white-lipped nurses hurry by. 

Take her, dread Angel ! Break in love 
This bruised reed and make it thine ! — 

No voice descended from above, 
But Avis answered, " She is mine." 

The task that dainty menials spurn 
The fair young girl has made her own ; 

Her heart shall teach, her hand shall 
learn 
The toils, the duties yet unknown. 

So Love and Death in lingering strife 
Stand face to face from day to day, 



THE LIVING TEMPLE. 



143 



Still battling for the spoil of Life 
While the slow seasons creep away. 

Love conquers Death ; the prize is won ; 

See to her joyous bosom pressed 
The dusky daughter of the sun, — 

The bronze against the marble breast ! 

Her task is done ; no voice divine 
Has crowned her deeds with saintly 
fame. 
No eye can see the aureole shine 
That rings her brow with heavenly 
flame. 

Yet what has holy page more sweet, 
Or what had woman's love more fair, 

"When Mary clasped her Saviour's feet 
"With flowing eyes and streaming hair ? 

Meek child of sorrow, walk unknown, 
The Angel of that earthly throng, 

And let thine image live alone 
To hallow this unstudied song ! 



THE LIVING TEMPLE. 

Not in the world of light alone, 
"Where God has built his blazing throne 
Nor yet alone in earth below, 
"With belted seas that come and go, 
And endless isles of sunlit green, 
Is all thy Maker's glory seen : 
Look in upon thy wondrous frame, — 
Eternal wisdom still the same ! 

The smooth, soft air with pulse-like 

waves 
Flows murmuring through its hidden 

caves, 
Whose streams of brightening purple 

rush, 
Fired with a new and livelier blush, 
While all their burden of decay 
The ebbing current steals away, 



And red with Nature's flame they start 
From the warm fountains of the heart. 

No rest that throbbing slave may ask, 
Forever quivering o'er his task, 
"While far and wide a crimson jet 
Leaps forth to fill the woven net 
"Which in unnumbered crossing tides 
The flood of burning life divides, 
Then, kindling each decaying part, 
Creeps back to find the throbbing heart. 

But warmed with that unchanging flame 
Behold the outward moving frame, 
Its living marbles jointed strong 
With glistening band and silvery thong. 
And linked to reason's guiding reins 
By myriad rings in trembling chains, 
Each graven with the threaded zone 
Which claims it as the master's own. 

See how yon beam of seeming white 
Is braided out of seven-hued light, 
Yet in those lucid globes no ray 
By any chance shall break astray. 
Hark how the rolling surge of sound, 
Arches and spirals circling round, 
Wakes the hushed spirit through thine 

ear 
With music it is heaven to hear. 

Then mark the cloven sphere that holds 
All thought in its mysterious folds. 
That feels sensations faintest thrill, 
And flashes forth the sovereign will ; 
Think on the storm}" world that dwells 
Locked in its dim and clustering cells! 
The lightning gleams of power it sheds 
Along its hollow glassy threads ! 

Father ! grant thy love divine 
To make these mystic temples thine ! 
When wasting age and wearying strife 
Have sapped the leaning walls of life, 



144 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



When darkness gathers over all, 
And the last tottering pillars fall, 
Take the poor dust thy mercy warms, 
And mould it into heavenly forms ! 



AT A BIRTHDAY FESTIVAL 

TO J. R. LOWELL. 

"We will not speak of years to-night, — 
For what have years to bring 

But larger floods of love and light, 
And sweeter songs to sing ? 

We will not drown in wordy praise 
The kindly thoughts that rise ; 

If Friendship own one tender phrase, 
He reads it in our eyes. 

We need not waste our school-boy art 
To gild this notch of Time ; — 

Forgive me if my wayward heart 
Has throbbed in artless rhyme. 

Enough for him the silent grasp 
That knits us hand in hand, 

And he the bracelet's radiant clasp 
That locks our circling band. 

Strength to his hours of manly toil ! 

Peace to his starlit dreams ! 
Who loves alike the furrowed soil, 

The music-haunted streams ! 

Sweet smiles to keep forever bright 

The sunshine on his lips, 
And faith that sees the ring of light 

Round nature's last eclipse ! 

February 22, 1859. 

A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE. 

TO J. F. CLARKE. 

Who is the shepherd sent to lead, 
Through pastures green, the Master's 
sheep ? 



What guileless " Israelite indeed " 
The folded flock may watch and keep ? 

He who with manliest spirit joins 
The heart of gentlest human mould, 

With burning light and girded loins, 
To guide the flock, or watch the fold ; 

True to all Truth the world denies, 
Not tongue-tied for its gilded sin ; 

Not always right in all men's eyes, 
But faithful to the light within ; 

Who asks no meed of earthly fame, 
Who knows no earthly master's call, 

Who hopes for man, through guilt and 
shame, 
Still answering, " God is over all " ; 

Who makes another's grief his own, 
Whose smile lends joy a double cheer ; 

Where lives the saint, if such be 
known ? — 
Speak softly, — such an one is here ! 

faithful shepherd ! thou hast borne 
The heat and burden of the day ; 

Yet, o'er thee, bright with beams un- 
shorn, 
The sun still shows thine onward way. 

To thee our fragrant love we bring, 
In buds that April half displays, 

Sweet first-born angels of the spring, 
Caught in their opening hymn of 
praise. 

What though our faltering accents fail, 
Our captives know their message well, 

Our words unbreathed their lips exhale, 
And sigh more love than ours can tell, 

April 4, 1860. 



THE GRAY CHIEF. — THE LAST LOOK 



145 



THE GRAY CHIEF. 

FOR THE MEETING OF THE MASSACHU- 
SETTS MEDICAL SOCIETY, 1859. 

'T is sweet to fight our battles o'er, 
And crown with honest praise 

The gray old chief, who strikes no 
more 
The blow of better days. 

Before the true and trusted sage 
With willing hearts we bend, 

When years have touched with hallowing 
age 
Our Master, Guide, and Friend. 

For all his manhood's labor past, 
For love and faith long tried, 

His age is honored to the last, 

Though strength and will have died. 

But when, untamed by toil and strife, 

Full in our front he stands, 
The torch of light, the shield of life, 

Still lifted in his hands, 

No temple, though its walls resound 
With bursts of ringing cheers, 

Can hold the honors that surround 
His manhood's twice-told years ! 



THE LAST LOOK. 

W. W. SWAIN. 

Behold — not him we knew ! 
This was the prison which his soul 
looked through, 
Tender, and brave, and true. 

His voice no more is heard ; 
And his dead name — that dear familiar 
word — 
Lies on our lips unstirred. 



He spake with poet's tongue ; 
Living, for him the minstrel's lyre waa 
strung : 
He shall not die unsung ! 

Grief tried his love, and pain ; 
And the long bondage of his martyr- 
chain 
Vexed his sweet soul, — in vain ! 

It felt life's surges break, 
As, girt with stormy seas, his island 
lake, 
Smiling while tempests wake. 

How can we sorrow more ? 
Grieve not for him whose heart had 
gone before 
To that untrodden shore ! 

Lo, through its leafy screen, 
A gleam of sunlight on a ring of green, 
Untrodden, half unseen ! 

Here let his body rest, 
Where the calm shadows that his soul 
loved best 
May slide above his breast. 

Smooth his uncurtained bed ; 
And if some natural tears are softly shed, 
It is not for the dead. 

Fold the green turf aright 
For the long hours before the morning's 
light, 
And say the last Good Night ! 

And plant a clear white stone 
Close by those mounds which hold his 
loved, his own, — 
Lonely, but not alone. 

Here let him sleeping lie, 
Till Heaven's bright watchers slumber 
in the sky 
And Death himself shall die ! 

Naushon, September 22, 1858. 



146 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



IN MEMORY OF CHARLES WENT- 
WORTH UPHAM, JR. 

He was all sunshine ; in his face 
The very soul of sweetness shone ; 

Fairest and gentlest of his race ; 
None like him we can call our own. 

Something there was of one that died 
In her fresh spring-time long ago, 

Our first dear Mary, angel-eyed, 
"Whose smile it was a bliss to know. 

Something of her whose love imparts 
Such radiance to her day's decline, 

"We feel its twilight in our hearts 
Bright as the earliest morning-shine. 

Yet richer strains our eye could trace 
That made our plainer mould more 
fair, 

That curved the lip with happier grace, 
That waved the soft and silken hair. 

Dust unto dust ! the lips are still 
That only spoke to cheer and bless ; 

The folded hands lie white and chill 
Unclasped from sorrow's last caress. 

Leave him in peace ; he will not heed 
These idle tears we vainly pour, 

Give back to earth the fading weed 
Of mortal shape his spirit wore. 

" Shall I not weep my heartstrings torn, 
My flower of love that falls half blown, 

My youth uncrowned, my life forlorn, 
A thorny path to walk alone ? " 

Mary ! one who bore thy name, 
"Whose Friend and Master was divine, 

Sat waiting silent till He came, 

Bowed down in speechless grief like 
thine. 



' ' Where have ye laid him ? " " Come, " 
they say, 

Pointing to where the loved one slept ; 
Weeping, the sister led the way, — 

And, seeing Mary, "Jesus wept." 

He weeps with thee, with all that mourn, 
And He shall wipe thy streaming eyes 

Who knew all sorrows, woman-born, — 
Trust in his word ; thy dead shall rise ! 

April 15, 1860. 



MARTHA. 

DIED JANUARY 7, 1861. 

Sexton ! Martha 's dead and gone ; 

Toll the bell ! toll the bell ! 
Her weary hands their labor cease ; 
Good night, poor Martha, — sleep in 
peace ! 
Toll the beU ! 

Sexton ! Martha 's dead and gone ; 

ToU the bell ! toll the bell ! 
For many a year has Martha said, 
' ' I 'm old and poor, — would I were 
dead ! " 
ToU the bell ! 

Sexton ! Martha 's dead and gone ; 

Toll the bell ! toll the bell ! 
She '11 bring no more, by day or night, 
Her basket full of linen white. 
Toll the bell ! 

Sexton ! Martha 's dead and gone ; 

Toll the bell ! toll the bell ! 
'T is fitting she should lie below 
A pure white sheet of drifted snow. 
ToU the bell ! 

Sexton ! Martha 's dead and gone ; 
Toll the bell ! toll the beU ! 



MEETING OF THE ALUMNI OF HARVARD COLLEGE. 



147 



Sleep, Martha, sleep, to wake in light, 
Where all the robes are stainless white. 
Toll the bell ! 



MEETING OF THE ALUMNI OF HAR- 
VARD COLLEGE. 

1S57. 

I thank you, Mr. President, you 've 

kindly broke the ice ; 
Virtue should always be the first, — I 'm 

only Second Vice — 
(A vice is something with a screw that 's 

made to hold its jaw 
Till some old file has played away upon 

an ancient saw). 

Sweet brothers by the Mother's side, 

the babes of days gone by, 
All nurslings of her Juno breasts whose 

milk is never dry, 
We come again, like half-grown boys, 

and gather at her beck 
About her knees, and on her lap, and 

clinging round her neck. 

We find her at her stately door, and in 

her ancient chair, 
Dressed in tne robes of red and green 

she always loved to wear. 
Her eye has all its radiant youth, her 

cheek its morning flame ; 
We drop our roses as we go, hers flourish 

still the same. 

We have been playing many an hour, 

and far away we 've strayed, 
Some laughing in the cheerful sun, some 

lingering in the shade ; 
And some have tired, and laid them down 

where darker shadows fall, — 
Dear as her loving voice may be, they 

cannot hear its call. 

What miles we 've travelled since we 
shook the dew-drops from our shoes 



We gathered on this classic gTeen, so 

famed for heavy dues ! 
How many boys have joined the game, 

how many slipped away, 
Since we 've been running up and down, 

and having out our play ! 

One boy at work with book and brief, 
and one with gown a nd band, 

One sailing vessels on the pool, one dig- 
ging in the sand, 

One flying paper kites on change, one 
planting little pills, — 

The seeds of certain annual flowers well 
known as little bills. 

What maidens met us on our way, and 

clasped us hand in hand ! 
What cherubs, — not the legless kind, 

that fly, but never stand ! 
How many a youthful head we 've seen 

put on its silver crown ! 
What sudden changes back again to 

youth's empurpled brown ! 

But fairer sights have met our eyes, and 

broader lights have shone, 
Since others lit their midnight lamps 

where once we trimmed our own ; 
A thousand trains that flap the sky with 

flags of rushing fire, 
And, throbbing in the Thunderer's hand, 

Thought's million-chorded lyre. 

We 've seen the sparks of Empire fly 

beyond the mountain bars, 
Till, glittering o'er the Western wave, 

they joined the setting stars ; 
And ocean trodden into paths that 

trampling giants ford, 
To find the planet's vertebrae and sink 

its spinal cord. 

We 've tried reform, — and chloroform, 
— and both have turned our brain ; 



148 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



When France called up the photograph, 
we roused the foe to pain ; 

Just so those earlier sages shared the 
chaplet of renown, — 

Hers sent a bladder to the clouds, ours 
brought their lightning down. 

"We 've seen the little tricks of life, its 

varnish and veneer, 
Its stucco-fronts of character flake off 

and disappear, 
"We 've learned that oft the brownest 

hands will heap the biggest pile, 
And met with many a "perfect brick" 

beneath a rimless " tile." 

What dreams we 've had of deathless 

name, as scholars, statesmen, bards, 
"While Fame, the lady with the trump, 

held up her picture cards ! 
Till, having nearly played our game, she 

gay ly whispered, "Ah! 
I said you should be something grand, — 

you '11 soon be grandpapa. " 

Well, well, the old have had their day, 

the young must take their turn ; 
There 's something always to forget, and 

something still to learn ; 
But how to tell what 's old or young, 

the tap-root from the sprigs, 
Since Florida revealed her fount to 

Ponce de Leon Twiggs? 

The wisest was a Freshman once, just 

freed from bar and bolt, 
As noisy as a kettle-drum, as leggy as a 

colt ; 
Don't be too savage with the boys, — 

the Primer does not say 
The kitten ought to go to church because 

the cat doth prey. 

The law of merit and of age is not the 
rule of three ; 



Non constat that A. M. must prove as 

busy as A. B. 
When Wise the father tracked the son, 

ballooning through the skies, 
He taught a lesson to the old, — go thou 

and do like Wise ! 

Now then, old boys, and reverend youth, 

of high of low degree, 
Kemember how we only get one annual 

out of three, 
And such as dare to simmer down three 

dinners into one 
Must cut their salads mighty short, and 

pepper well with fun. 

I 've passed my zenith long ago, it 's time 

for me to set ; 
A dozen planets wait to shine, and I am 

lingering yet, 
As sometimes in the blaze of day a niilk- 

and-watery moon 
Stains with its dim and fading ray the 

lustrous blue of noon. 

Farewell ! yet let one echo rise to shake 

our ancient hall ; 
God save the Queen, — whose throne is 

here, — the Mother of us all ! 
Till dawns the great commencement-day 

on every shore and sea, 
And " Expectantur " all mankind, to 

take their last Degree ! 



THE PARTING SONG. 

FESTIVAL OF THE ALUMNI, 1857. 

The noon of summer sheds its ray 
On Harvard's holy ground ; 

The Matron calls, the sons obey, 
And gather smiling round. 

Chorus. 
Then old and young together stand, 
The sunshine and the snow, 



FOR THE SANITARY ASSOCIATION. 



149 



As heart to heart, and hand in hand, 
We sing before we go ! 

Her hundred opening doors have swung ; 

Through every storied hall 
The pealing echoes loud have rung, 

"Thrice welcome one and all ! " 
Then old and young, etc. 

We floated through her peaceful bay, 

To sail life's stormy seas ; 
But left our anchor where it lay 

Beneath her green old trees. 
Then old and young, etc. 

As now we lift its lengthening chain, 

That held us fast of old, 
The rusted rings grow bright again, — 

Their iron turns to gold. 
Then old and young, etc. 

Though scattered ere the setting sun, 
As leaves when wild winds blow, 

Our home is here, are hearts are one, 
Till Charles forgets to flow. 
Then old and young, etc. 



FOR THE MEETING OF THE NATIONAL 
SANITARY ASSOCIATION. 

1S60. 

What makes the Healing Art divine ? 

The bitter drug we buy and sell, 
The brands that scorch, the blades that 
shine, 
The scars we leave, the "cures" we 
tell? 

Are these thy glories, holiest Art, — 
The trophies that adorn thee best, — 

Or but thy triumph's meanest part, — 
Where mortal weakness stands con- 
fessed ? 



We take the arms that Heaven supplies 
For Life's long battle with Disease, 

Taught by our various need to prize 
Our frailest weapons, even these. 

But ah ! when Science drops her shield — 
Its peaceful shelter proved in vain — 

And bares her snow-white arm to wield 
The sad, stern ministry of pain ; 

When shuddering o'er the fount of life, 
She folds her heaven-anointed wings, 

To lift unmoved the glittering knife 
That searches all its crimson springs ; 

When, faithful to her ancient lore, 
She thrusts aside her fragrant balm 

For blistering juice, or cankering ore, 
And tames them till they cure or 
calm ; 

When in her gracious hand are seen 
The dregs and scum of earth and seas, 

Her kindness counting all things clean 
That lend the sighing sufferer ease ; 

Though on the field that Death has won, 
She save some stragglers in retreat ; — 

These single acts of mercy done 
Are but confessions of defeat 

What though our tempered poisons save 
Some wrecks of life from aches and 
ails ; 
Those grand specifics Nature gave 
Were never poised by weights 01 
scales ! 

God lent his creatures light and air, 
And waters open to the skies ; 

Man locks him in a stifling lair, 
And wonders why his brother dies ! 

In vain our pitying tears are shed, 
In vain we rear the sheltering pile 



150 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



Where Art weeds out from bed to bed 
The plagues we planted by the mile ! 

Be that the glory of the past ; 

With these our sacred toils begin : 
So flies in tatters from its mast 

The yellow flag of sloth and sin, 

And lo ! the starry folds reveal 
The blazoned truth we hold so dear : 

To guard is better than to heal, — 
The shield is nobler than the spear ! 



fOR THE BURNS CENTENNIAL CELE- 
BRATION. 

JANUARY 25, 1859. 

His birthday. — Nay, we need not speak 
The name each heart is beating, — 

Each glistening eye and flushing cheek 
In light and flame repeating ! 

We come in one tumultuous tide, — 
One surge of wild emotion, — 

As crowding through the Frith of Clyde 
Kolls in the Western Ocean ; 

As when yon cloudless, quartered moon 
Hangs o'er each storied river, 

The swelling breasts of Ayr and Doon 
With sea-green wavelets quiver. 

The century shrivels like a scroll, — 
The past becomes the present, — ■ 

And face to face, and soul to soul, 
We greet the monarch-peasant. 

While Shenstone strained in feeble flights 
With Corydon and Phillis, — 

While Wolfe was climbing Abraham's 
heights 
To snatch the Bourbon lilies, — 

Who heard the wailing infant's cry, 
The babe beneath the sheeting, 



Whose song to-night in every sky 
Will shake earth's starry ceiling, — 

Whose passion-breathing voice ascends 
And floats like incense o'er us, 

Whose ringing lay of friendship blends 
With labor's anvil chorus ? 

We love him, not for sweetest song, 
Though never tone so tender ; 

We love him, even in his wrong, — 
His wasteful self- surrender. 

We praise him, not for gifts divine, — 
His Muse was born of woman, — 

His manhood breathes in every line, — 
Was ever heart more human ? 

We love him, praise him, just for this : 

In every form and feature, 
Through wealth and want, through woe 
and bliss, 

He saw his fellow- creature ! 

No soul could sink beneath his love, — 

Not even angel blasted ; 
No mortal power could soar above 

The pride that all outlasted ! 

Ay ! Heaven had set one living man 
Beyond the pedant's tether, — 

His virtues, frailties, He may scan, 
Who weighs them all together ! 

I fling my pebble on the cairn 
Of him, though dead, undying ; 

Sweet Nature's nursling, bonniest baira 
Beneath her daisies lying. 

The waning suns, the wasting globe, 
Shall spare the minstrel's story, — 

The centuries weave his purple robe, 
The mountain-mist of glory ! 



Boston Common 



BOSTON COMMON. — THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA. 



151 



BOSTON COMMON. -THREE PICTURES. 

FOR THE FAIR IN AID OF THE FUND 
TO PROCURE BALL'S STATUE OF WASH- 
INGTON. 

1630. 

All overgrown with bush and fern, 

And straggling clumps of tangled 
trees, 
"With trunks that lean and boughs that 
turn, 

Bent eastward by the mastering 
breeze, — 
With spongy bogs that drip and fill 

A yellow pond with muddy rain, 
Beneath the shaggy southern hill 

Lies wet and low the Shawmut plain. 
And hark ! the trodden branches crack ; 

A crow flaps off with startled scream ; 
A straying woodchuck canters back ; 

A bittern rises from the stream ; 
Leaps from his lair a frightened deer ; 

An otter plunges in the pool ; — 
Here conies old Shawmut's pioneer, 

The parson on his brindled bull ! 

1774. 

The streets are thronged with trampling 
feet, 

The northern hill is ridged with graves, 
But night and morn the drum is beat 

To frighten down the "rebel knaves." 
The stonee of King Street still are red, 

And yet the bloody red-coats come : 
1 hear their pacing sentry's tread, 

The click of steel, the tap of drum, 
And over all the open green, 

"Where grazed of late the harmless 
kine, 
The cannon's deepening ruts are seen, 

The war-horse stamps, the bayonets 
shine. 
Th« clouds are dark with crimson rain 

Above the murderous hirelings' den, 



And soon their whistling showers shall 
stain 
The pipe-clayed belts of Gage's men. 

186 

Around the green, in morning light, 

The spired and palaced summits blaze, 
And, sunlike, from her Beacon-height 

The dome-crowned city spreads her 
rays ; 
They span the waves, they belt the plains, 

They skirt the roads with bands of 
white, 
Till with a flash of gilded panes 

Yon farthest hillside bounds the sight. 
Peace, Freedom, "Wealth ! no fairer view, 

Though with the wild-bird's restless 
wings 
"We sailed beneath the noontide's blue 

Or chased the moonlight's endless 
rings ! 
Here, fitly raised by grateful hands 

His holiest memory to recall, 
The Hero's, Patriot's image stands ; 

He led our sires who won them all ! 

November 14, 1859. 



THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA. 

A NIGHTMARE DREAM BY DAYLIGHT. 

Do you know the Old Man of the Sea, 
of the Sea ? 
Have you met with that dreadful old 
man ? 
If you have n't been caught, you will be, 
you will be ; 
For catch you he must and he can. 

He does n't hold on by your throat, by 
your throat, 
As of old in the terrible tale ; 
But he grapples you tight by the coat, 
by the coat, 
Till its buttons and button-holes fail 



152 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



There 's the charm of a snake in his eye, 
in his eye, 
And a polypus-grip in his hands ; 
You cannot go back, nor get by, nor get 

by, 

If you look at the spot where he 
stands. 

0, you 're grabbed ! See his claw on 
your sleeve, on your sleeve ! 
It is Sinbad's Old Man of the Sea ! 
You 're. a Christian, no doubt you be- 
lieve, you believe : 
You 're a martyr, whatever you be ! 

— Is the breakfast-hour past? They 

must wait, they must wait, 
While the coffee boils sullenly down, 
While the Johnny-cake burns on the 

grate, on the grate, 
And the toast is done frightfully 

brown. 

— Yes, your dinner will keep ; let it 

cool, let it cool, 
And Madam may worry and fret, 
And children half-starved go to school, 

go to school ; 
He can't think of sparing you yet. 

— Hark ! the bell for the train ! " Come 

along ! Come along ! 
For there isn't a second to lose." 
"All aboard!" (He holds on.) "Fsht! 

ding-dong ! Fsht ! ding-dong ! " — 
You can follow on foot, if you choose. 

— There 's a maid with a cheek like a 

peach, like a peach, 
That is waiting for you in the 

church ; — 
But he clings to your side like a leech, 

like a leech, 
And you leave your lost bride in the 

lurch. 



— There 's a babe in a fit, — hurry 

quick ! hurry quick ! 
To the doctor's as fast as you can ! 
The baby is off, while you stick, while 

you stick, 
In the grip of the dreadful Old Man ! 

— I have looked on the face of the Bore, 

of the Bore ; 
The voice of the Simple I know ; 
I have welcomed the Flat at my door, at 

my door ; 
I have sat by the side of the Slow ; 

I have walked like a lamb by the friend, 
by the friend, 
That stuck to my skirts like a bur ; 
I have borne the stale talk without end, 
without end, 
Of the sitter whom nothing could stir : 

But my hamstrings grow loose, and I 
shake, and I shake, 
At the sight of the dreadful Old Man ; 
Yea, I quiver and quake, and I take, 
and I take, 
To my legs with what vigor I can ! 

the dreadful Old Man of the Sea, of 
the Sea ! 
He 's come back like the Wandering 
Jew ! 
He has had his cold claw upon me, upon 
me, — 
And be sure that he '11 have it on you ! 

INTERNATIONAL ODE. 

OUR fathers' land. 1 

God bless our Fathers' Land ! 
Keep her in heart and hand 
One with our own ! 

1 Sung in unison by twelve hundred chil- 
dren of the public schools, at the visit of the 
Prince of Wales to Boston, October 18, 186a 
Air, "God save the Queen." 



VIVE LA FRANCE. — BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT. 153 



From all her foes defend, 
Be her brave People's Friend, 
On all her realms descend, 
Protect her Throne ! 

Father, with loving care 

Guard Thou her kingdom's Heir, 

Guide all his ways : 
Thine arm his shelter be, 
From him by land and sea 
Bid storm and danger flee, 

Prolong his days ! 

Lord, let "War's tempest cease, 
Fold the whole Earth in peace 

Under thy wings ! 
Make all Thy nations one, 
All hearts beneath the sun, 
Till Thou shalt reign alone, 

Great King of kings ! 

VIVE LA FRANCE! 

A SENTIMENT OFFERED AT THE DINNER 
TO H. I. H. THE PRINCE NAPOLEON, AT 
THE REVERE HOUSE, SEPT. 25, 1861. 

The land of sunshine and of song ! 

Her name your hearts divine ; 
To her the banquet's vows belong 

Whose breasts have poured its 
wine ; 
Our trusty friend, our true ally 

Through varied change and chance : 
So, fill your flashing goblets high, — 

I give you, Vive la France ! 

Above our hosts in triple folds 

The selfsame colors spread, 
"Where Valor's faithful arm upholds 

The blue, the white, the red ; 
Alike each nation's glittering crest 

Reflects the morning's glance, — 
Twin eagles, soaring east and west : 

Once more, then, Vive la France ! 



Sister in trial ! who shall count 

Thy generous friendship's claim, 
"Whose blood ran mingling in the fount 

That gave our land its name, 
Till Yorktown saw in blended line 

Our conquering arms advance, 
And victory's double garlands twine 

Our banners ? Vive la France ! 

land of heroes ! in our need 

One gift from Heaven we crave 
To stanch these wounds that vainly 
bleed, — 

The wise to lead the brave ! 
Call back one Captain of thy past 

From glory's marble trance, 
"Whose name shall be a bugle-blast 

To rouse us ! Vive la France ! 

Pluck Conde's baton from the trench, 

"Wake up stout Charles Martel, 
Or find some woman's hand to clench 

The sword of La Pucelle ! 
Give us one hour of old Turenne, — 

One lift of Ba} r ard's lance, — 
Nay, call Marengo's Chief again 

To lead us ! Vive la France ! 

Ah, hush ! our welcome Guest shall hear 

But sounds of peace and joy ; 
No angry echo vex thine ear, 

Fair Daughter of Savoy ! 
Once more ! the land of arms and arts, 

Of glory, grace, romance; 
Her love lies warm in all our hearts : 

God bless her ! Vive la France I 



BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR 
SISTER CAROLINE. 

She has gone, — she has left us in pas- 
sion and pride, — 

Our stormy -browed sister, so long at our 
side! 



154 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



She has torn her own star from our fir- 
mament's glow, 

And turned on her brother the face of a 
foe! 

Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, 

We can never forget that our hearts 
have been one, — 

Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's 
name, 

From the fountain of blood with the fin- 
ger of flame ! 

You were always too ready to fire at a 
touch ; 

But we said, " She is hasty, — she does 
not mean much." 

We have scowled, when you uttered 
some turbulent threat ; 

But Friendship still whispered, "For- 
give and forget ! " 

Has our love all died out ? Have its 

altars grown cold ? 
Has the curse come at last which the 

fathers foretold? 
Then Nature must teach us the strength 

of the chain 
That her petulant children would sever 

in vain. 

They may fight till the buzzards are 

gorged with their spoil, 
Till the harvest grows black as it rots 

in the soil, 
Till the wolves and the catamounts 

troop from their caves, 
And the shark tracks the pirate, the 

lord of the waves : 

In vain is the strife ! When its fury is 

past, 
Their fortunes must flow in one channel 

at last, 



As the torrents that rush from the 
mountains of snow 

Roll mingled in peace through the val- 
leys below. 

Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and 

sky: 
Man breaks not the medal, when God 

cuts the die ! 
Though darkened with sulphur, though 

cloven with steel, 
The blue arch will brighten, the waters 

will heal ! 

Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, 
There are battles with Fate that can 

never be won ! 
The star-flowering banner must never 

be furled, 
For its blossoms of light are the hope of 

the world ! 

Go, then, our rash sister ! afar and aloof, 
Run wild in the sunshine away from our 

roof ; 
But when your heart aches and your feet 

have grown sore, 
Remember the pathway that leads to our 

door ! 

March 25, 1861. 



UNDER THE WASHINGTON ELM, CAM- 
BRIDGE. 

April 27, 1861. 

Eighty years have passed, and more, 
Since under the brave old tree 
Our fathers gathered in arms, and swore 
They would follow the sign their ban- 
ners bore, 
And fight till the land was free. 

Half of their work was done, 
Half is left to do, — 



FREEDOM, OUR QUEEN. — ARMY HYMN. 



155 



Cambridge, and Concord, and Lexing- 
ton ! 
When the battle is fought and won, 
What shall be told of you ? 

Hark ! — 'tis the south-wind moans, — 
Who are the martyrs down ? 
Ah, the marrow was true in your chil- 
dren's bones 
That sprinkled with blood the cursed 
stones 
Of the murder-haunted town ! 

What if the storm-clouds blow ? 

What if the green leaves fall ? 
Better the crashing tempest's throe 
Than the army of worms that gnawed 
below ; 

Trample them one and all ! 

Then, when the battle is won, 
And the land from traitors free, 
Our children shall tell of the strife begun 
When Liberty's second April sun 
Was bright on our brave old tree ! 



FREEDOM, OUR QUEEN. 

Land where the banners wave last in 

the sun, 
Blazoned with star-clusters, many in one, 
Floating o'er prairie and mountain and 

sea ; 
Hark ! 't is the voice of thy children to 

thee! 

Here at thine altar our vows we re- 
new 

Still in thy cause to be loyal and 
true, — 

True to thy flag on the field and the 
wave, 

Living to honor it, dying to save ! 



Mother of heroes ! if perfidy's blight 
Fall on a star in thy garland of light, 
Sound but one bugle-blast! Lo ! at the 

sign 
Armies all panoplied wheel into line ! 

Hope of the world ! thou hast broken its 

chains, — 
Wear thy bright arms while a tyrant 

remains, 
Stand for the right till the nations shall 

own 
Freedom their sovereign, with Law for 

her throne ! 

Freedom ! sweet Freedom ! our voices 
resound, 

Queen by God's blessing, unsceptred, un- 
crowned ! 

Freedom, sweet Freedom, our pulses 
repeat, 

Warm with her life-blood, as long as 
they beat ! 

Fold the broad banner-stripes over her 

breast, — 
Crown her with star-jewels Queen of the 

West ! 
Earth for her heritage, God for her 

friend, 
She shall reign over us, world without 

end ! 

ARMY HYMN. 

"Old Hundred." 

Lord of Hosts ! Almighty King ! 
Behold the sacrifice we bring ! 
To every arm Thy strength impart, 
Thy spirit shed through every heart ! 

Wake in our breasts the living fires, 
The holy faith that warmed our sires ; 
Thy hand hath made our Nation free ; 
To die for her is serving Thee. 



156 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



Be Thou a pillared flame to show 
The midnight snare, the silent foe ; 
And when the battle thunders loud, 
Still guide us in its moving cloud. 

God of all Nations ! Sovereign Lord ! 
In Thy dread name we draw the sword, 
We lift the starry flag on high 
That fills with light our stormy sky. 

From treason's rent, from murder's stain, 
Guard Thou its folds till Peace shall 

reign, — 
Till fort and field, till shore and sea, 
Join our loud anthem, Pkaise to Thee! 



PARTING HYMN. 

"Dundee." 

Father of Mercies, Heavenly Friend, 
We seek Thy gracious throne ; 

To Thee our faltering prayers ascend, 
Our fainting hearts are known ! 

From blasts that chill, from suns that 
smite, 

From every plague that harms ; 
In camp and march, in siege and fight, 

Protect our men-at-arms ! 

Though from our darkened lives they 
take 

What makes our life most dear, 
We yield them for their country's sake 

With no relenting tear. 

Our blood their flowing veins will shed, 
Their wounds our breasts will share ; 

0, save us from the woes we dread, 
Or grant us strength to bear ! 

Let each unhallowed cause that brings 

The stern destroyer cease, 
Thy flaming angel fold his wings, 

And seraphs whisper Peace ! 



Thine are the sceptre and the sword, 
Stretch forth Thy mighty hand, — 

Eeign Thou our kingless nation's Lord, 
Rule Thou our throneless land ! 



THE FLOWER OF LIBERTY. 

What flower is this that greets the mom 
Its hues from Heaven so freshly born ? 
With burning star and flaming band 
It kindles all the sunset land : 
tell us what its name may be, — 
Is this the Flower of Liberty ? 
It is the banner of the free, 
The starry Flower of Liberty ! 

In savage Nature's far abode 
Its tender seed our fathers sowed ; 
The storm -winds rocked its swelling bud, 
Its opening leaves were streaked with 

blood, 
Till lo ! earth's tyrants shook to see 
The full-blown Flower of Liberty ! 
Then hail the banner of the free, 
The starry Flower of Liberty ! 

Behold its streaming rays unite, 
One mingling flood of braided light, — 
The red that fires the Southern rose, 
With spotless white from Northern snows, 
And, spangled o'er its azure, see 
The sister Stars of Liberty ! 

Then hail the banner of the free, 
The starry Flower of Liberty ! 

The blades of heroes fence it round, 
Where'er it springs is holy ground ; 
From tower and dome its glories spread ; 
It waves where lonely sentries tread j 
It makes the land as ocean free, 
And plants an empire on the sea ! 
Then hail the banner of the free, 
The starry Flower of Liberty ! 

Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom's flower, 
Shall ever float on dome and tower, 






THE SWEET LITTLE MAN. 



157 



To all their heavenly colors true, 
In blackening frost or crimson dew, 
And God love us as we love thee, 
Thrice holy Flower of Liberty ! 
Then hail the banner of the free, 
The starry Flower of Liberty ! 



THE SWEET LITTLE MAN. 

DEDICATED TO THE STAY-AT-HOME 
RANGERS. 

Now, while our soldiers are fighting our 
battles, 
Each at his post to do all that he can, 
Down among rebels and contraband 
chattels, 
What are you doing, my sweet little 
man? 

All the brave boys under canvas are 
sleeping, 
All of them pressing to march with 
the van, 
Far from the home where their sweet- 
hearts are weeping ; 
What are you waiting for, sweet little 
man ? 

You with the terrible warlike mus- 
taches, 
Fit for a colonel or chief of a clan, 
You with the waist made for sword-belts 
and sashes, 
Where are your shoulder-straps, sweet 
little man ? 

Bring him the buttonless garment of 
woman ! 
Cover his face lest it freckle and tan ; 
Muster the Apron-string Guards on the 
Common, 
That is the corps for the sweet little 
man ! 



Give him for escort a file of young misses, 
Each of them armed with a deadly 
rattan ; 
They shall defend him from laughter 
and hisses, 
Aimed by low boys at the sweet little 
man. 

All the fair maidens about him shall 
cluster, 
Pluck the white feathers from bonnet 
and fan, 
Make him a plume like a turkey-wing 
duster, — 
That is the crest for the sweet little 
man ! 

0, but the Apron-string Guards are the 
fellows ! 
Drilling each day since our troubles 
began, — 
" Handle your walking - sticks ! " 
"Shoulder umbrellas ! " 
That is the style for the sweet little 
man. 

Have we a nation to save ? In the first 

place 
Saving ourselves is the sensible 

plan, — 
Surely the spot where there 's shooting 's 

the worst place 
Where I can stand, says the sweet little 

man. 

Catch me confiding my person with 
strangers ! 
Think how the cowardly Bull-Eun- 
ners ran ! 
In the brigade of the Stay-at-home 
Rangers 
Marches my corps, says the sweet 
little man. 

Such was the stuff of the Malakoff- 
takers, 



158 



SONGS IN MANY KEYS. 



Such were the soldiers that scaled 

the Kedan ; 
Truculent housemaids and bloodthirsty 

Quakers, 
Brave not the wrath of the sweet 

little man ! 

Yield him the sidewalk, ye nursery 
maidens ! 
Sauve qui peut/ Bridget, and right 
about ! Ann ; — 
Fierce as a shark in a school of men- 
hadens, 
See him advancing, the sweet little 
man ! 

When the red flails of the battle-field's 
threshers 
Beat out the continent's wheat from 
its bran, 
While the wind scatters the chaffy 
seceshers, 
What will become of our sweet little 
man ? 

When the brown soldiers come back 
from the borders, 
How will he look while his features 
they scan ? 
How will he feel when he gets marching 
orders, 
Signed by his lady love ? sweet little 
man ! 

Fear not for him, though the rebels ex- 
pect him, — 
Life is too precious to shorten its span ; 
Woman her broomstick shall raise to 
protect him, 
Will she not fight for the sweet little 
man ! 

Now then, nine cheers for the Stay-at- 
home Ranger ! 
Blow the great fish-horn and beat the 
big pan ! 



First in the field that is farthest from 
danger, 
Take your white-feather plume, sweet 
little man ! 



UNION AND LIBERTY. 

Flag of the heroes who left us their 
glory, 
Borne through their battle-fields' thun- 
der and flame, 
Blazoned in song and illumined in story, 
Wave o'er us all who inherit their 
fame ! 
Up with our banner bright, 
Sprinkled with starry light, 
Spread its fair emblems from moun- 
tain to shore, 
While through the sounding sky 
Loud rings the Nation's cry, — 
Union and Liberty ! One ever- 
more! 

Light of our firmament, guide of our 
Nation, 
Pride of her children, and honored 
afar, 
Let the wide beams of thy full constel- 
lation 
Scatter each cloud that would darken 
a star ! 
Up with our banner bright, etc. 

Empire unsceptred ! what foe shall assail 
thee, 
Bearing the standard of Liberty's 
van? 
Think not the God of thy fathers shall 
fail thee, 
Striving with men for the birthright 
of man J 
Up with our banner bright, etc. 

Yet if, by madness and treachery 
blighted, 



UNION AND LIBERTY. 



159 



Dawns the dark hour when the sword 
thou must draw, 
Then with the arms of thy millions 
united, 
Smite the bold traitors to Freedom 
and Law ! 
Up with our banner bright, etc. 

> Lord of the Universe ! shield us and 
guide us, 
Trusting thee always, through shadow 
and &un ! 



Thou hast united us, who shall divide 
us? 
Keep us, keep us the Many in 
One! 
Up with our banner bright, 
Sprinkled with starry light, 
Spread its fair emblems from moun- 
tain to shore, 
While through the sounding sky 
Loud rings the Nation's cry, — 
Union and Liberty ! One eveb- 

MOBS! 




POEMS 



FROM THE 



AUTOCRAT OF TIIE BREAKFAST TABLE. 




POEMS 



FROM THE 



AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



1857-1858. 



THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. 

This- is the ship of pearl, which, poets 

feign, 

Sails the unshadowed main, — 

The venturous bark that flings 

On the sweet summer wind its purpled 

wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren 
sings, 
And coral reefs lie bare, 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to suu 
their streaming hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 
Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 
And every chambered cell, 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to 

dwell, 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing 
shell, 
Before thee lies revealed, — 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt 
unsealed ! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 
That spread his lustrous coil ; 
Still, as the spiral grew, 

He left the past year's dwelling for the 
new, 



Stole with soft step its shining archway 

through, 
Built up its idle door, 
Stretched in his last-found home, and 

knew the old no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought 
by thee, 
Child of the wandering sea, 
Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is 

born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed 
horn ! 
While on mine ear it rings, 
Through the deep caves of thought I 
bear a voice that sings : — 

Build thee more stately mansions, my 
soul, 
As the swift seasons roll ! 
Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the 

last, 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more 
vast, 
Till thou at length art free, 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's 
unresting sea ! 



162 POEMS FROM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



SUN AND SHADOW. 

As I look from the isle, o'er its billows 
of green, 
To the billows of foam-crested blue, 
Yon bark, that afar in the distance is 

seen, 
Half dreaming, my eyes will pursue : 
Now dark in the shadow, she scatters 
the spray 
As the chaff in the stroke of the flail ; 
Now white as the sea-gull, she flies on 
her way, 
The sun gleaming bright on her sail. 

Yet her pilot is thinking of dangers to 
shun, — 
Of breakers that whiten and roar ; 
How little he cares, if in shadow or sun 
They see him who gaze from the shore ! 
He looks to the beacon that looms from 
the reef, 
To the rock that is under his lee, 
As he drifts on the blast, like a wind- 
wafted leaf, 
O'er the gulfs of the desolate sea. 

Thus drifting afar to the dim -vaulted 
caves 
Where life and its ventures are laid, 
The dreamers who gaze while we battle 
the waves 
May see us in sunshine or shade ; 
Yet true to our course, though the 
shadows grow dark, 
"We '11 trim our broad sail as before, 
And stand by the rudder that governs 
the bark, 
Nor ask how we look from the shore ! 



THE TWO ARMIES. 

As Life's unending column pours, 
Two marshalled hosts are seen, — 

Two armies on the trampled shores 
That Death flows black between. 



One marches to the drum-beat's roll, 
The wide-mouthed clarion's bray, 

And bears upon a crimson scroll, 
" Our glory is to slay." 

One moves in silence by the stream, 
With sad, yet watchful eyes, 

Calm as the patient planet's gleam 
That walks the clouded skies. 

Along its front no sabres shine, 
No blood-red pennons wave ; 

Its banner bears the single line, 
" Our duty is to save." 

For those no death-bed's lingering shade; 

At Honor's trumpet-call, 
With knitted brow and lifted blade 

In Glory's arms they fall. 

For these no clashing falchions bright, 

No stirring battle-cry ; 
The bloodless stabber calls by night, — 

Each answers, " Here am I ! " 

For those the sculptor's laurelled bust, 

The builder's marble piles, 
The anthems pealing o'er their dust 

Through long cathedral aisles. 

For these the blossom-sprinkled turf 
That floods the lonely graves 

When Spring rolls in her sea-green surf 
In flower-foaming waves. 

Two paths lead upward from below, 

And angels wait above, 
Who count each burning life-drop's flow, 

Each falling tear of Love. 

Though from the Hero's bleeding breast 

Her pulses Freedom drew, 
Though the white lilies in her crest 

Sprang from that scarlet dew, — 



MUSA. 



153 



While Valor's haughty champions wait 
Till all their scars are shown, 

Love walks unchallenged through the 
gate, 
To sit beside the Throne ! 



MUSA. 

my lost beauty ! — hast thou folded 
quite 
Thy wings of morning light 
Beyond those iron gates 
Where Life crowds hurrying to the hag- 
gard Fates, 
And Age upon his mound of ashes waits 

To chill our fiery dreams, 
Hot from the heart of youth plunged in 
his icy streams? 

Leave me not fading in these weeds of 
care, 
Whose flowers are silvered hair ! 
Have I not loved thee long, 
Though my young lips have often done 

thee wrong, 
And vexed thy heaven-tuned ear with 
careless song ? 
Ah, wilt thou yet return, 
Bearing thy rose-hued torch, and bid 
thine altar burn ? 

Come to me ! — I will flood thy silent 
shrine 
With my soul's sacred wine, 
And heap thy marble floors 
As the wild spice-trees waste their fra- 
grant stores, 
In leafy islands willed with madrepores 

And lapped in Orient seas, 
When all their feathery palms toss, 
plume-like, in the breeze. 

Come to me ! — thou shalt feed on hon- 
eyed words, 
Sweeter than song of birds ; — 



No wailing bulbul's throat, 
No melting dulcimer's melodious note 
When o'er the midnight wave its mur- 
murs float, 
Thy ravished sense might soothe 
With flow so liquid-soft, with strain so 
velvet-smooth. 

Thou shalt be decked with jewels, like 
a queen, 
Sought in those bowers of green 
Where loop the clustered vines 
And the close-clinging dulcamara 1 

twines, — 
Pure pearls of Maydew where the moon- 
light shines, 
And Summer's fruited gems, 
And coral pendants shorn from Autumn's 
berried stems. 

Sit by me drifting on the sleepy waves, — 

Or stretched by grass-grown graves, 

Whose gray, high-shouldered stones, 

Carved with old names Life's time-worn 

roll disowns, 
Lean, lichen-spotted, o'er the crumbled 
bones 
Still slumbering where they lay 
While the sad Pilgrim watched to scare 
the wolf away. 

Spread o'er my couch thy visionary 
wing! 
Still let me dream and sing, — 
Dream of that winding shore 
Where scarlet cardinals bloom — for ma 

no more, — 
The stream with heaven beneath its 
liquid floor, 
And clustering nenuphars 
Sprinkling its mirrored blue like golden- 
chaliced stars ! 

1 The " bitter-sweet " of New England is the 
Celasirus scandens, — "Bourreau des arbres" 
of the Canadian French. 



164 POEMS FROM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



Come while their balms the linden-blos- 
soms shed ! — 
Come while the rose is red, — 
While blue-eyed Summer smiles 
On the green ripples round yon sunken 

piles 
"Washed by the moon-wave warm from 
Indian isles, 
And on the sultry air 
The chestnuts spread their palms like 
holy men in prayer ! 

O for thy burning lips to fire my brain 
With thrills of wild, sweet pain ! — 
On life's autumnal blast, 
Like shrivelled leaves, youth's passion- 
flowers are cast, — 
Once loving thee, we love thee to the 
last ! — 
Behold thy new-decked shrine, 
And hear once more the voice that 
breathed "Forever thine!" 



A PARTING HEALTH. 

TO J. L. MOTLEY. 

Yes, we knew we must lose him, — 
though friendship may claim 

To blend her green leaves with the lau- 
rels of fame ; 

Though fondly, at parting, we call him 
our own, 

'T is the whisper of love when the bugle 
has blown. 

As the rider that rests with the spur on 

his heel, 
As the guardsman that sleeps in his 

corselet of steel, 
As the archer that stands with his shaft 

on the string, 
He stoops from his toil to the garland 

we bring. 



What pictures yet slumber unborn in 
his loom, 

Till their warriors shall breathe and 
their beauties shall bloom, 

While the tapestry lengthens the life- 
glowing dyes 

That caught from our sunsets the stain 
of their skies ! 

In the alcoves of death, in the charnels 

of time, 
Where flit the gaunt spectres of passion 

and crime, 
There are triumphs untold, there are 

martyrs unsung, 
There are heroes yet silent to speak with 

his tongue ! 

Let us hear the proud story which time 
has bequeathed ! 

From lips that are warm with the free- 
dom they breathed ! 

Let him summon its tyrants, and tell us 
their doom, 

Though he sweep the black past like 

Van Tromp with his broom ! 

* * * 

The dream flashes by, for the west-winds 
awake 

On pampas, on prairie, o'er mountain 
and lake, 

To bathe the swift bark, like a sea- 
girdled shrine, 

With incense they stole from the rose 
and the pine. 

So fill a bright cup with the sunlight 

that gushed 
When the dead summer's jewels were 

trampled and crushed : 
The true Knight of Learning, — 

the world holds him dear, — 
Love bless him, Joy crown him, God 

speed his career 1 

1857. 



WHAT WE ALL THINK. — SPRING HAS COME. 



165 



WHAT WE ALL THINK. 

That age was older once than now, 
In spite of locks untimely shed, 

Or silvered on the youthful brow ; 
That babes make love and children 
wed. 

That sunshine had a heavenly glow, 
Which faded with those "good old 
days" 

When winters came with deeper snow, 
And autumns with a softer haze. 

That — mother, sister, wife, or child — 
The "best of women" each has 
known. 
Were school-boys ever half so wild ? 
How young the grandpapas have 
grown ! 

That but for this our souls were free, 
And but for that our lives were blest ; 

That in some season yet to be 

Our cares will leave us time to rest. 

Whene'er we groan with ache or pain, — 
Some common ailment of the race, — 

Though doctors think the matter 
plain, — 
That ours is "a peculiar case." 

That when like babes with fingers burned 
We count one bitter maxim more, 

Our lesson all the world has learned, 
And men are wiser than before. 

That when we sob o'er fancied woes, 
The angels hovering overhead 

Count every pitying drop that flows, 
And love us for the tears we shed. 

That when we stand with tearless eye 
And turn the beggar from our door, 

They still approve us when we sigh, 
" Ah, had I but one thousand more ! " 



Though temples crowd the crumbled 
brink 

O'erhanging truth's eternal flow, 
Their tablets bold with wlmt we think, 

Their echoes dumb to what we know; 

That one unquestioned text we read, 
All doubt beyond, all fear above, 

Nor crackling pile nor cursing creed 
Can burn or blot it : God is Love ! 



SPRING HAS COME. 

INTRA MUROS. 

The sunbeams, lost for half a year, 
Slant through my pane their morning 
rays ; 

For dry northwesters cold and clear, 
The east blows in its thin blue haze. 

And first the snowdrop's bells are seen, 
Then close against the sheltering wall 

The tulip's horn of dusky green, 
The peony's dark unfolding ball. 

The golden-chaliced crocus burns ; 

The long narcissus-blades appear ; 
The cone-beaked hyacinth returns 

To light her blue-flamed chandelier. 

The willow's whistling lashes, wrung 
By the wild winds of gusty March, 

With sallow leaflets lightly strung, 
Are swaying by the tufted larch. 

The elms have robed their slender spray 
With full-blown flower and embryo 
leaf; 

Wide o'er the clasping arch of day 
Soars like a cloud their hoary chief. 

See the proud tulip's flaunting cup, 
That flames in glory for an hour, — 

Behold it withering, — then look up, — 
How meek the forest monarch's flower! 



1G6 POEMS FROM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



"When wake the violets, "Winter dies ; 

"When spront the elm-buds, Spring is 
near; 
"When lilacs blossom, Summer cries, 

" Bud, little roses ! Spring is here ! " 

The windows blush with fresh bouquets, 
Cut with the May-dew on their lips ; 

The radish all its bloom displays, 
Pink as Aurora's finger-tips. 

Nor less the flood of light that showers 
On beauty's changed corolla-shades, — 

The walks are gay as bridal bowers 
"With rows of many-petalled maids. 

The scarlet shell-fish click and clash 

In the blue barrow where they slide ; 
The horseman, proud of streak and 
splash, 
Creeps homeward from his morning 
ride. 

Here comes the dealer's awkward string, 
"With neck in rope and tail in knot, — 

Rough colts, with careless country- swing, 
In lazy walk or slouching trot. 



Wild filly from the mountain-side, 
Doomed to the close and chafing thills, 

Lend me thy long, untiring stride 
To seek with thee thy western hills ! 

I hear the whispering voice of Spring, 
The thrush's trill, the robin's cry, 

Like some poor bird with prisoned wing 
That sits and sings, but longs to fly. 

for one spot of living green, — 

One little spot where leaves can 
grow, — 

To love unblamed, to walk unseen, 
To dream above, to sleep below ! 



PROLOGUE, 

A prologue ? "Well, of course the ladiei 

know ; — 
I have my doubts. No matter, — here 

we go ! 
"What is a Prologue? Let our Tutor 

teach : 
Pro means beforehand ; logos stands for 

speech. 
'T is like the harper's prelude on the 

strings, 
The prima donna's courtesy ere she 

sings : — 
Prologues in metre are to other pros 
As worsted stockings are to engine-hose. 
"The world's a stage," — as Shake- 
speare said, one day; 
The stage a world — was what he meant 

to say. 
The outside world 's a blunder, that is 

clear ; 
The real world that Nature meant is here. 
Here every foundling finds its lost 

mamma ; 
Each rogue, repentant, melts his stern 

papa ; 
Misers relent, the spendthrift's debts 

are paid, 
The cheats are taken in the traps they 

laid ; 
One after one the troubles all are past 
Till the fifth act comes right side up at 

last, 
"When the young couple, old folks, 

rogues, and all, 
Join hands, so happy at the curtain's fall. 
Here suffering virtue ever finds relief, 
And black-browed ruffians always come 

to grief. 
"When the lorn damsel, with a frantic 

screech, 
And cheeks as hueless as a brandy-peach, 
Cries, "Help, kyind Heaven!" ancj 

drops upon her knees 



PROLOGUE. 



167 



On the green — baize, — beneath the 
(canvas) trees, — 

See to her side avenging Valor fly : — 

"Ha! Villain! Draw! Now, Terrai- 
torr, yield or die ! " 

When the poor hero flounders in despair, 

Some dear lost uncle turns up million- 
naire, 

Clasps the young scrapegrace with pater- 
nal joy, 

Sobs on his neck, "My boy I My boy ! ! 
MY BOY!!!" 

Oars, then, sweet friends, the real world 

to-night, 
Of love that conquers in disaster's spite. 
Ladies, attend ! "While woful cares and 

doubt 
Wrong the soft passion in the world 

without, 
Though fortune scowl, though prudence 

interfere, 
One thing is certain : Love will triumph 

here ! 
Lords of creation, whom your ladies 

rule, — 
The world's great masters, when you 're 

out of school, — 
Learn the brief moral of our evening's 

play: 
Man has his will, — but woman has her 

way ! 
While man's dull spirit toils in smoke 

and fire, 
Woman's swift instinct threads the elec- 
tric wire, — 
The magic bracelet stretched beneath 

the waves 
Beats the black giant with his score of 

slaves. 
All earthly powers confess your sov- 
ereign art 
But that one rebel, — woman's wilful 

heart. 
All foes you master, but a woman's wit 



Lets daylight through you ere you know 

you 're hit. 
So, just to picture what her art can do, 
Hear an old story, made as good as new. 

Rudolph, professor of the headsman's 
trade, 

Alike was famous for his arm and blade. 

One day a prisoner Justice had to kill 

Knelt at the block to test the artist's 
skill. 

Bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and 
shaggy-browed, 

Rudolph the headsman rose above the 
crowd. 

His falchion lighted with a sudden 
gleam, 

As the pike's armor flashes in the 
stream. 

He sheathed his blade ; he turned as 
if to go ; 

The victim knelt, still waiting for the 
blow. 

" Why strikest not ? Perform thy mur- 
derous act," 

The prisoner said. (His voice was 
slightly cracked.) 

"Friend, I have struck," the artist 
straight replied ; 

"Wait but one moment, and yourself 
decide." 

He held his snuff-box, — "Now then, 
if you please ! " 

The prisoner sniffed, and, with a crash- 
ing sneeze, 

Off his head tumbled, — bowled along 
the floor, — 

Bounced down the steps ; — the pris- 
oner said no more ! 

Woman ! thy falchion is a glittering eye ; 

If death lurk in it, how sweet to die ! 

Thou takest hearts as Rudolph took the 
head ; 

We die with love, and never dream 
we 're dead ! 



168 POEMS FROM THE AUTOCBAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



LATTER-DAY WARNINGS. 

When legislators keep the law, 
When banks dispense with bolts and 
locks, — 
When berries — whortle, rasp, and 
straw — 
Grow bigger downwards through the 
box, — 

When he that selleth house or land 
Shows leak in roof or flaw in right, — 

When haberdashers choose the stand 
Whose window hath the broadest 
light, - 

When preachers tell us all they think, 
And party leaders all they mean, — 

When what we pay for, that we drink, 
From real grape and coffee-bean, — 

When lawyers take what they would 
give, 
And doctors give what they would 
take, — 
When city fathers eat to live, 

Save when they fast for conscience' 
sake, — 

When one that hath a horse on sale 
Shall bring his merit to the proof, 

Without a lie for every nail 

That holds the iron on the hoof, — 

When in the usual place for rips 

Our gloves are stitched with special 
care, 

And guarded well the whalebone tips 
Where first umbrellas need repair, — 

When Cuba's weeds have quite forgot 
The power of suction to resist, 

And claret-bottles harbor not 
Such dimples as would hold your 
fist^ — 



When publishers no longer steal, 
And pay for what they stole before, — 

When the first locomotive's wheel 
Rolls through the Hoosac tunnel's 
bore ; — 



Till then let Cumming blaze away, 
And Miller's saints blow up the globe • 

But when you see that blessed day, 
Then order your ascension robe ! 



ALBUM VERSES. 

When Eve had led her lord away, 
And Cain had killed his brother, 

The stars and flowers, the poets say, 
Agreed with one another 

To cheat the cunning tempter's art, 
And teach the race its duty, 

By keeping on its wicked heart 
Their eyes of light and beauty. 

A million sleepless lids, they say, 

Will be at least a warning ; 
And so the flowers would watch by day, 

The stars from eve to morning. 

On hill and prairie, field and lawn, 

Their dewy eyes upturning, 
The flowers still watch from reddening 
dawn 

Till western skies are burning. 

Alas ! each hour of daylight tells 
A tale of shame so crushing, 

That some turn white as sea-bleached 
shells, 
And some are always blushing. 

But when the patient stars look down 

On all their light discovers, 
The traitor's smile, the murderer's frown, 

The lips of lying lovers, 



A GOOD TIME GOING! 



169 



They try to shut their saddening eyes, 

And in the vain endeavor 
We see them twinkling in the skies, 

And so they wink forever. 



A GOOD TIME GOING I 

Brave singer of the coming time, 

Sweet minstrel of the joyous present, 
Crowned with the noblest wreath of 
rhyme, 

The holly-leaf of Ayrshire's peasant, 
Good by ! Good by ! — Our hearts and 
hands, 

Our lips in honest Saxon phrases, 
Cry, God be with him, till he stands 

His feet among the English daisies ! 

'T is here we part ; — for other eyes 

The busy deck, the fluttering streamer, 
The dripping arms that plunge and rise, 

The waves in foam, the ship in tremor, 
The kerchiefs waving from the pier, 

The cloudy pillar gliding o'er him, 
The deep blue desert, lone and drear, 

"With heaven above and home before 
him ! 

His home ! — the Western giant smiles, 
And twirls the spotty globe to find 
it; — 
This little speck the British Isles ? 

'T is but a freckle, — never mind it ! 
He laughs, and all his prairies roll, 
Each gurgling cataract roars and 
chuckles, 
And ridges stretched from pole to pole 
Heave till they crack their iron 
knuckles ! 

But Memory blushes at the sneer, 
And Honor turns with frown defiant, 

And Freedom, leaning on her spear, 
Laughs louder than the laughing 
giant: 



"An islet is a world," she said, 

"When glory with its dust has 
blended, 
And Britain keeps her noble dead 
Till earth and seas and skies are 
rended ! " 

Beneath each swinging forest-bough 

Some arm as stout in death reposes, — 
From wave-washed foot to heaven-kissed 
brow 

Her valor's life-blood runs in roses; 
Nay, let our brothers of the West 

Write smiling in their florid pages, 
One half her soil has walked the rest 

In poets, heroes, martyrs, sages ! 

Hugged in the clinging billow's clasp, 

From sea-weed fringe to mountain 
heather, 
The British oak with rooted grasp 

Her slender handful holds together ; — 
With cliffs of white and bowers of green, 

And Ocean narrowing to caress her, 
And hills and threaded streams be- 
tween, — 

Our little mother isle, God bless her ? 

In earth's broad temple where we stand, 

Fanned by the eastern gales that 
brought us, 
We hold the missal in our hand, 

Bright with the lines our Mother 
taught us. 
Where'er its blazoned page betrays 

The glistening links of gilded fetters, 
Behold, the half-turned leaf displays 

Her rubric stained in crimson letters 1 

Enough ! To speed a parting friend 
'T is vain alike to speak and listen ; — 

Yet stay, — these feeble accents blend 
With rays of light from eyes that 
glisten. 

Good by ! once more, — and kindly tell 



170 POEMS FROM THE AUTOCEAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



In words of peace the young world's 
story, — 
And say, besides, we love too well 
Our mothers' soil, our fathers' glory ! 

THE LAST BLOSSOM. 

Though young no more, we still would 
dream 

Of beauty's dear deluding wiles ; 
The leagues of life to graybeards seem 

Shorter than boyhood'slingeringmiles. 

Who knows a woman's wild caprice ? 

It played with Goethe's silvered hair, 
And many a Holy Father's " niece " 

Has softly smoothed the papal chair. 

When sixty bids us sigh in vain 
To melt the heart of sweet sixteen, 

We think upon those ladies twain 
Who loved so well the tough old Dean. 

We see the Patriarch's wintry face, 
The maid of Egypt's dusky glow, 

And dream that Youth and Age embrace, 
As April violets fill with snow. 

Tranced in her lord's Olympian smile 
His lotus-loving Memphian lies, — 

The musky daughter of the Nile, 
With plaited hair and almond eyes. 

Might we but share one wild caress 
Ere life's autumnal blossoms fall, 

And Earth's brown, clinging lips impress 
The long cold kiss that waits us all ! 

My bosom heaves, remembering yet 
The morning of that blissful day, 

When Rose, the flower of spring, I met, 
And gave my raptured soul away. 

ifiung from her eyes of purest blue, 
A lasso, with its leaping chain, 



Light as a loop of larkspurs, flew 
O'er sense and spirit, heart and brain. 

Thou com'st to cheer my waning age, 
Sweet vision, waited for so long ! 

Dove that would seek the poet's cage 
Lured by the magic breath of song ! 

She blushes ! Ah, reluctant maid, 
Love's drapeau rouge the truth has 
told! 
O'er girlhood's yielding barricade 
Floats the great Leveller's crimson 
fold! 

Come to my arms ! — love heeds not 
years ; 

No frost the bud of passion knows. — 
Ha ! what is this my frenzy hears ? 

A voice behind me uttered, — Rose ! 

Sweet was her smile, — but not for me ; 

Alas ! when woman looks too kind, 
Just turn your foolish head and see, — 

Some youth is walking close behind I 



CONTENTMENT. 

" Man wants but little here below." 

Little I ask ; my wants are few ; 

I only wish a hut of stone, 
(A very plain brown stone will do,) 

That I may call my own ; — 
And close at hand is such a one, 
In yonder street that fronts the sun. 

Plain food is quite enough for me ; 

Three courses are as good as ten ; — 
If Nature can subsist on three, 

Thank Heaven for three. Amen ! 
I always thought cold victual nice ; — 
My choice would be vanilla-ice. 

I care not much for gold or land ; — 
Give me a mortgage here and there, — 



iESTIYATIOX. 



171 



Some good bank-stock, some note of 
hand, 
Or trifling railroad share, — 
I only ask that Fortune send 
A little more than I shall spend. 

Honors are silly toys, I know, 

And titles are but empty names ; 
I would, perhaps, be Plenipo, — 

But only near St. James ; 
I 'm very sure I should not care 
To rill our Gubernator's chair. 

Jewels are bawbles ; 't is a sin 

To care for such unfruitful things ; — 
One good-sized diamond in a pin, — 
Some, not so large, in rings, — 
A ruby, and a pearl, or so, 
Will do for me ; — 1 laugh at show. 

My dame should dress in cheap attire ; 

(Good, heavy silks are never dear;) — 
I own perhaps I might desire 

Some shawls of true Cashmere, — 
Some marrowy crapes of China silk, 
Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. 

I would not have the horse I drive 

So fast that folks must stop and stare ; 
An easy gait — two, forty-five — 
Suits me ; I do not care ; — 
Perhaps, for just a single spurt, 
Some seconds less would do no hurt. 

Of pictures, I should like to own 

Titians and Raphaels three or four, — 
I love so much their style and tone, — 

One Turner, and no more, 
(A landscape, — foreground golden 

dirt, — 
The sunshine painted with a squirt.) 

Of books but few, — some fifty score 
For daily use, and bound for wear ; 
The rest upon an upper floor ; — 
Some little luxury there 



Of red morocco's gilded gleam, 
And vellum rich as country cream. 

Busts, cameos, gems, — such things as 
these, 
Which others often show for pride, 
I value for their power to please, 

And selfish churls deride ; — 
One Stradivarius, I confess, 
Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess. 

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn 
Nor ape the glittering upstart fool ; — 
Shall not carved tables serve my turn, 

But all must be of buhl ? 
Give grasping pomp its double share, — 
I ask but one recumbent chair. 

Thus humble let me live and die, 

Nor long for Midas' golden touch ; 
If Heaven more generous gifts deny, 

I shall not miss them much, — 
Too grateful for the blessing lent 
Of simple tastes and mind content ! 

/ESTIVATION. 

AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, BY MY LATB 
LATIN TUTOR. 

In candent ire the solar splendor flames ; 
The foles, languescent, pend from arid 

rames ; 
His humid front the cive, anheling, 

wipes, 
And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes. 

How dulce to vive occult to mortal eyes, 
Dorm on the herb with none to supervise, 
Carp the suave berries from the crescent 

vine, 
And bibe the flow from longicaudate 

kine ! 

To me, alas ! no verdurous visions come, 
Save yon exiguous pool's conferva* 
scum, — 



172 POEMS FROM THE AUTOCEAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



No concave vast repeats the tender hue 
That laves my milk-jug with celestial 
blue! 

Me wretched ! Let me curr to quercine 

shades ! 
Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous 

maids ! 
0, might I vole to some umbrageous 

clump, — 
Depart, — be off, — excede, — evade, — 

erump ! 

THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; 

OR, THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY." 
A LOGICAL STORY. 

Have you heard of the wonderful one- 

hoss shay, 
That was built in such a logical way 
It ran a hundred years to a day, 
And then, of a sudden, it ah, but 

stay, 
I '11 tell you what happened without delay, 
Scaring the parson into fits, 
Frightening people out of their wits, — 
Have you ever heard of that, I say ? 

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. 
Georgius Secundus was then alive, — 
Snuffy old drone from the German hive. 
That was the year when Lisbon-town 
Saw the earth open and gulp her down, 
And Braddock's army was done so brown, 
Left without a scalp to its crown. 
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day 
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss 
shay. 

Now in building of chaises, I tell you 

what, 
There is always somewhere a weakest 

spot, — 
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, 



In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, 
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, — lurk- 
ing still, 
Find it somewhere you must and will, — ■ 
Above or below, or within or without, — 
And that 's the reason, beyond a doubt, 
That a chaise breaks down, but does n't 
wear out. 

But the Deacon swore, (as Deacons do, 
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell 

yeou") 
He would build one shay to beat the 

taown 
'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun' ; 
It should be so built that it couldrt break 

daown : 
— "Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty 

plain 
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the 

strain ; 
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, 

Is only jest 
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest. " 

So the Deacon inquired of the village 

folk 
"Where he could find the strongest oak, 
That could n't be split nor bent nor 

broke, — 
That was for spokes and floor and 

sills ; 
He sent for lancewood to make the thills ; 
The crossbars were ash, from the straight- 

est trees, 
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like 

cheese, 
But lasts like iron for things like these ; 
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's 

ellum," — 
Last of its timber, — they could n't sell 

'em, 
Never an axe had seen their chips, 
And the wedges flew from between theii 

lips, 



S/ie was a wonder, and nothing less 



THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE. 



173 



Their blunt ends frizzled like celery- 
tips; 
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, 
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, 
Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; 
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and 

wide ; 
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide 
Found in the pit when the tanner died. 
That was the way he " put her 

through." — 
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow 
she '11 dew ! " 

Do ! I tell you, I rather guess 
She was a wonder, and nothing less ! 
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, 
Deacon and deaconess dropped away, 
Children and grandchildren — where 

were they ? 
But there stood the stout old one-hoss 

shay 
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day ! 

Eighteen hundred ; — it came and 

found 
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and 

sound. 
Eighteen hundred increased by ten ; — 
"Hahnsum kerridge " they called it 

then. 
Eighteen hundred and twenty came ; — 
Running as usual ; much the same. 
Thirty and forty at last arrive, 
And then come fifty, and fifty-five. 

Little of all we value here 
"Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year 
"Without both feeling and looking queer. 
In fact, there 's nothing that keeps its 

youth, 
So far as I know, but a tree and truth. 
(This is a moral that runs at large ; 
Take it. — You 're welcome. — No extra 

charge.) 



First of November, — the Earthquake- 
day— 
There are traces of age in the one-hoss 

shay, 
A general flavor of mild decay, 
But nothing local, as one may say. 
There could n't be, — for the Deacon's 

art 
Had made it so like in every part 
That there was n't a chance for one to 

start. 
For the wheels were just as strong as the 

thills, 
And the floor was just as strong as the 

sills, 
And the panels just as strong as the floor, 
And the whipple-tree neither less nor 

more, 
And the back-crossbar as strong as the 

fore, 
And spring and axle and hub encore. 
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt 
In another hour it will be worn out / 

First of November, 'Fifty-five ! 

This morning the parson takes a drive. 

Now, small boys, get out of the way ! 

Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, 

Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. 

" Huddup ! " said the parson. — Off 
went they. 

The parson was working his Sunday's 
text, — 

Had got to fifthly, and stopped per- 
plexed 

At what the — Moses — was coming 
next. 

All at once the horse stood still, 

Close by the meet'n' -house on the hill. 

— First a shiver, and then a thrill, 

Then something decidedly like a spill, — ■ 

And the parson was sitting upon a rock, 

At half past nine by the meet'n'-house 
clock, — 

Just the hour of the Earthquake shock ! 



174 POEMS FEOM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



— What do you think the parson found, 
"When he got up and stared around ? 
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, 
As if it had been to the mill and ground ! 
You see, of course, if you 're not a dunce, 
How it went to pieces all at once, — 
All at once, and nothing first, — 
Just as bubbles do when they burst. 

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. 
Logic is logic. That 's all I say. 

PARSON TURELL'S LEGACY. 

OR, THE PRESIDENT'S OLD ARM-CHAIR. 
A MATHEMATICAL STORY. 

Facts respecting an old arm-chair. 
At Cambridge. Is kept in the College 

there. 
Seems but little the worse for wear. 
That 's remarkable when I say 
It was old in President Holyoke's day. 
(One of his boys, perhaps you know, 
Died, at one hundred, years ago.) 
He took lodgings for rain or shine 
Under green bed-clothes in '69. 

Know old Cambridge? Hope you do. — 
Born there ? Don't say so ! I was, too. 
(Born in a house with a gambrel-roof, — 
Standing still, if you must have proof. — 
" Gambrel ?— Gambrel ? " — Let me beg 
You '11 look at a horse's hinder leg, — 
First great angle above the hoof, — 
That 's the gambrel ; hence gambrel- 
roof.) 
— Nicest place that ever was seen, — 
Colleges red and Common green, 
Sidewalks brownish with trees between. 
Sweetest spot beneath the skies 
When the canker-worms don't rise, — 
When the dust, that sometimes flies 
Into your mouth and ears and eyes, 
In a quiet slumber lies, 



Not in the shape of unbaked pies 
Such as barefoot children prize. 

A kind of harbor it seems to be, 
Facing the flow of a boundless sea. 
Rows of gray old Tutors stand 
Ranged like rocks above the sand ; 
Rolling beneath them, soft and green, 
Breaks the tide of bright sixteen, — 
One wave, two waves, three waves, 

four, — 
Sliding up the sparkling floor : 
Then it ebbs to flow no more, 
Wandering off from shore to shore 
With its freight of golden ore ! 

— Pleasant place for boys to play ; — 
Better keep your girls away ; 
Hearts get rolled as pebbles do 
Which countless fingering waves pursue, 
And every classic beach is strown 
With heart-shaped pebbles of blood-red 

stone. 

But this is neither here nor there ; — 
I 'm talking about an old arm-chair. 
You 've heard, no doubt, of Parson 

Ttjrell ? 
Over at Medford he used to dwell ; 
Married one of the Mathers' folk ; 
Got with his wife a chair of oak, — 
Funny old chair with seat like wedge, 
Sharp behind and broad front edge, — 
One of the oddest of human things, 
Turned all over with knobs and rings, — 
But heavy, and wide, and deep, and 

grand, — 
Fit for the worthies of the land, — 
Chief Justice Sewall a cause to try in, 
Or Cotton Mather to sit — and lie — in. 

— Parson Turell bequeathed the same 
To a certain student, — Smith by name j 
These were the terms, as we are told : 
"Saide Smith saide Chaire to have and 

holde ; 
When he doth graduate, then to passe 



PARSON TURELL'S LEGACY. 



175 



To y* oldest Youth in y e Senior Classe. 
On Payment of" — naming a certain 

sum) — 
" By him to whom y* Chaire shall come; 
He to y* oldest Senior next, 
And soe forever," — (thus runs the 

text,) — 
u But one Crown lesse then he gave to 

claime, 
That heing his Debte for use of same." 

Smith transferred it to one of the 

Browns, 
And took his money, — five silver 

crowns. 
Brown delivered it up to Moore, 
Who paid, it is plain, not five, but four. 
Moore made over the chair to Lee, 
"Who gave him crowns of silver three. 
Lee conveyed it unto Drew, 
And now the payment, of course, was two. 
Drew gave up the chair to Dunn, — 
All he got, as you see, was one. 
Dunn released the chair to Hall, 
And got by the bargain no crown at all. 
— And now it passed to a second Brown, 
Who took it and likewise claimed a 

crown. 
When Brown conveyed it unto Ware, 
Having had one crown, to make it fair, 
He paid him two crowns to take the 

chair ; 
And Ware, being honest, (as all Wares 

be,) 
He paid one Potter, who took it, three. 
Four got Robinson ; five got Dix ; 
Johnson primus demanded six ; 
And so the sum kept gathering still 
Till after the battle of Bunker's HilL 

— When paper money became so 
cheap, 

Folks would n't count it, but said "a 
heap," 

A certain Richards, — the books de- 
clare, — 



(A. M. in '90 ? I Ve looked with care 
Through the Triennial, — name not 

there,) — 
This person, Richards, was offered then 
Eightscore pounds, but would have 

ten ; 
Nine, I think, was the sum he took, — 
Not quite certain, — but see the book. 

— By and by the wars were still, 

But nothing had altered the Parson's 

wffl. 
The old arm-chair was solid yet, 
But saddled with such a monstrous 

debt ! 
Things grew quite too bad to bear, 
Paying such sums to get rid of the 

chair ! 
But dead men's fingers hold awful tight, 
And there was the will in black and 

white, 
Plain enough for a child to spell. 
What should be done no man could tell, 
For the chair was a kind of nightmare 

curse, 
And every season but made it worse. 

As a last resort, to clear the doubt, 

They got old Governor Hancock out. 

The Governor came with his Light- 
horse Troop 

And his mounted truckmen, all cock-a- 
hoop ; 

Halberds glittered and colors rlew, 

French horns whinnied and trumpets 
blew, 

The yellow fifes whistled between their 
teeth 

And the bumble-bee bass-drums boomed 
beneath ; 

So he rode with all his band, 

Till the President met him, cap in hand. 

— The Governor "hefted" the crowns, 

and said, — 
"A will is a will, and the Parson's 
dead." 



176 POEMS FROM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



The Governor hefted the crowns. Said 

he, — 
"There is your p'int. And here 's my 

fee. 
These are the terms you must fulfil, — 
On such conditions I break the 

will ! " 
The Governor mentioned what these 

should be. 
(Just wait a minute and then you '11 see.) 
The President prayed. Then all was 

still, 
And the Governor rose and broke the 

will ! 
— "About those conditions?" Well, 

now you go 
And do as I tell you, and then you '11 

know. 
Once a year, on Commencement day, 
If you '11 only take the pains to stay, 
You '11 see the President in the Chair, 
Likewise the Governor sitting there. 
The President rises ; both old and young 
May hear his speech in a foreign tongue, 
The meaning whereof, as lawyers swear, 



Is this : Can I keep this old arm-chair ? 
And then his Excellency bows, 
As much as to say that he allows. 
The Vice-Gub. next is called by name ; 
He bows like t' other, which means the 

same. 
And all the officers round 'em bow, 
As much as to say that they allow. 
And a lot of parchments about the chair 
Are handed to witnesses then and there, 
And then the lawyers hold it clear 
That the chair is safe for another year. 

God bless you, Gentlemen ! Learn to 

give 
Money to colleges while you live. 
Don't be silly and think you '11 try 
To bother the colleges, when you die, 
With codicil this, and codicil that, 
That Knowledge may starve while Law 

grows fat ; 
For there never was pitcher that 

would n't spill, 
And there 's always a flaw in a donkey's 

will! 



ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING. 

WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALER. 

Come ! fill a fresh bumper, for why should we go 

logwood 
While the nootar still reddens our cups as they flow ? 

decoction 

Pour out the rioh juicca still bright with the sun, 

dye stuff 
Till o'er the brimmed crystal the rubioa shall run. 

half-ripened apples 

The purplo globod oluotcro their life-dews have bled ; 

taste sugar of lead 

How sweet is the breath of the fragrance they ohod ! 

rank poisons wines ! ! ! 

For summer's last rooes lie hid in the wines 

stable-boys smoking long-nines 

That were garnered by maidens who laughod thro' tho vinoo. 

scowl howl scoff sneer 

Then a omilo , and a glass, and a toast, and a sheer, 

strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer 

For all tho good winO) and wo 'vo some of it horo 4 
In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall, 

Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all I 

fcong livo tho gay aorvant that laughs for no oil ! 



POEMS 



FROM THE 



PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 




POEMS 



FROM THE 



PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



1858 - 1859. 



UNDER THE VIOLETS. 

Her hands are cold ; her face is white ; 
No more her pulses come and go ; 

Her eyes are shut to life and light ; — 
Fold the white vesture, snow on snow, 
And lay her where the violets blow. 

But not beneath a graven stone, 
To plead for tears with alien eyes ; 

A slender cross of wood alone 
Shall say, that here a maiden lies 
In peace beneath the peaceful skies. 

And gray old trees of hugest limb 
Shall wheel their circling shadows 
round 
To make the scorching sunlight dim 
That drinks the greenness from the 

ground, 
And drop their daad leaves on her 
mound. 

When o'er their boughs the squirrels 
run, 
And through their leaves the robins 
call, 
And, ripening in the autumn sun, 
The acorns and the chestnuts fall, 
Doubt not that she will heed them all. 



For her the morning choir shall sing 
Its matins from the branches high, 

And every minstrel- voice of Spring, 
That trills beneath the April sky, 
Shall greet her with its earliest cry. 

When, turning round their dial-track, 
Eastward the lengthening shadows 
pass, 
Her little mourners, clad in black, 
The crickets, sliding through the 

grass, 
Shall pipe for her an evening mass. 

At last the rootlets of the trees 

Shall find the prison where she lies, 

And bear the buried dust they seize 
In leaves and blossoms to the skies. 
So may the soul that warmed it rise ! 

If any, born of kindlier blood, 

Should ask, What maiden lies below ? 

Say only this : A tender bud, 
That tried to blossom in the snow, 
Lies withered where the violets blow. 



HYMN OF TRUST. 

Love Divine, that stooped to share 
Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear, 



178 POEMS FROM THE PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



On Thee we cast each earth-born care, 
We smile at pain While Thou art near ! 

Though long the weary way we tread, 
And sorrow crown each lingering year, 

No path we shun, no darkness dread, 
Our hearts still whispering, Thou art 
near ! 

When drooping pleasure turns to grief, 
And trembling faith is changed to fear, 

The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf, 
Shall softly tell us, Thou art near ! 

On Thee we fling our burdening woe, 
O Love Divine, forever dear, 

Content to suffer while we know, 
Living and dying, Thou art near 1 



A SUN-DAY HYMN. 

Lord of all being ! throned afar, 
Thy glory flames from sun and star ; 
Centre and soul of every sphere, 
Yet to each loving heart how near ! 

Sun of our life, thy quickening ray 
Sheds on our path the glow of day ; 
Star of our hope, thy softened light 
Cheers the long watches of the night. 

Our midnight is thy smile withdrawn ; 
Our noontide is thy gracious dawn ; 
Our rainbow arch thy mercy's sign ; 
All, save the clouds of sin, are thine ! 

Lord of all life, below, above, 

Whose light is truth, whose warmth is 

love, 
Before thy ever-blazing throne 
We ask no lustre of our own. 

Grant us thy truth to make us free, 
And kindling hearts that burn for thee, 
Till all thy living altars claim 
One holy light, one heavenly flame ! 



THE CROOKED FOOTPATH. 

Ah, here it is ! the sliding rail 
That marks the old remembered 
spot, — 
The gap that struck our school-boy 
trail, — 
The crooked path across the lot. 

It left the road by school and church, 
A pencilled shadow, nothing more, 

That parted from the silver-birch 
And ended at the farm-house door. 

No line or compass traced its plan ; 

With frequent bends to left or right. 
In aimless, wayward curves it ran, 

But always kept the door in sight. 

The gabled porch, with woodbine 
green, — 
The broken millstone at the sill, — 
Though many a rood might stretch be- 
tween, 
The truant child could see them still. 

No rocks across the pathway lie, — 
No fallen trunk is o'er it thrown, — 

And yet it winds, we know not why, 
And turns as if for tree or stone. 

Perhaps some lover trod the way 
With shaking knees and leaping 
heart, — 

And so it often runs astray 

With sinuous sweep or sudden start. 

Or one, perchance, with clouded brain 
From some unholy banquet reeled, — 

And since, our devious steps maintain 
His track across the trodden field. 

Nay, deem not thus, — no earthborn will 
Could ever trace a faultless line ; 

Our truest steps are human still, — 
To walk unswerving were divine ! 



IRIS, HER BOOK 



179 



Truants from love, we dream of wrath ; — 
0, rather let us trust the more ! 

Through all the wanderings of the path, 
"We still can see our Father's door ! 



IRIS, HER BOOK. 

I pray thee by the soul of her that bore 
thee, 

By thine own sister's spirit I implore 
thee, 

Deal gently with the leaves that lie be- 
fore thee ! 

For Iris had no mother to infold her, 
Nor ever leaned upon a sister* s shoulder, 
Telling the twilight thoughts that Na- 
ture told her. 

She had not learned the mystery of 
awaking 

Those chorded keys that soothe a sor- 
row's aching, 

Giving the dumb heart voice, that else 
were breaking. 

Yet lived, wrought, suffered. Lo, the 
pictured token ! 

Why should her fleeting day-dreams 
fade unspoken, 

Like daffodils that die with sheaths un- 
broken ? 

She knew not love, yet lived in maiden 

fancies, — 
Walked simply clad, a queen of high 

romances, 
And talked strange tongues with angels 

in her trances. 

Twin-souled she seemed, a twofold na- 
ture wearing, — 

Sometimes a flashing falcon in her dar- 
ing, 

Then a poor mateless doVe that droops 
despairing. 



Questioning all things : Why her Lord 
had sent her ? 

What were these torturing gifts, and 
wherefore lent her ? 

Scornful as spirit fallen, its own tor- 
mentor. 

And then all tears and anguish : Queen 
of Heaven, 

Sweet Saints, and Thou by mortal sor- 
rows riven, 

Save me ! 0, save me ! Shall I die 
forgiven ? 

And then Ah, God ! But nay, it 

little matters : 
Look at the wasted seeds that autumn 

scatters, 
The myriad germs that Nature shapes 

and shatters ! 

If she had Well ! She longed, and 

knew not wherefore. 
Had the world nothing she might live 

to care for? 
No second self to say her evening prayer 

for? 

She knew the marble shapes that set 

men dreaming, 
Yet with her shoulders bare and tresses 

streaming 
Showed not unlovely to her simple 

seeming. 

Yain ? Let it be so ! Nature was her 

teacher. 
What if a lonely and unsistered creature 
Loved her own harmless gift of pleasing 

feature, 

Saying, unsaddened, — This shall soon 

be faded, 
And double-hued the shining tresses 

braided, 



180 POEMS FROM THE PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



And all the sunlight of the morning 
shaded ? 



- This her poor book is full of sad- 
dest follies, 



Of tearful smiles and laughing melan- 
cholies, 

With summer roses twined and wintry 
hollies. 

In the strange crossing of uncertain 
chances, 

Somewhere, beneath some maiden's tear- 
dimmed glances 

May fall her little book of dreams and 
fancies. 

Sweet sister ! Iris, who shall never 

name thee, 
Trembling for fear her open heart may 

shame thee, 
Speaks from this vision-haunted page 

to claim thee. 

Spare her, I pray thee ! If the maid is 

sleeping, 
Peace with her ! she has had her hour 

of weeping. 
No more ! She leaves her memory in 

thy keeping. 



ROBINSON OF LEYDEN. 

He sleeps not here ; in hope and prayer 
His wandering flock had gone before, 

But he, the shepherd, might not share 
Their sorrows on the wintry shore. 

Before the Speedwell's anchor swung, 
Ere yet the Mayflower's sail was 
spread, 

While round his feet the Pilgrims clung, 
The pastor spake, and thus he said : — 

" Men, brethren, sisters, children dear ! 
God calls you hence from over sea ; 



Ye may not build by Haerlem Meer, 
Nor yet along the Zuyder-Zee. 

" Ye go to bear the saving word 
To tribes unnamed and shores untrod : 

Heed well the lessons ye have heard 
From those old teachers taught of God. 

"Yet think not unto them was lent 
All light for all the coming days, 

And Heaven's eternal wisdom spent 
In making straight the ancient ways : 

"The living fountain overflows 
For every flock, for every lamb, 

Nor heeds, though angry creeds oppose 
With Luther's dike or Calvin's dam." 

He spake : with lingering, long embrace, 
With tears of love and partings fond, 

They floated down the creeping Maas, 
Along the isle of Ysselmond. 

They passed the frowning towers of Briel, 
The "Hook of Holland's" shelf of 
sand, 

And grated soon with lifting keel 
The sullen shores of Fatherland. 

No home for these ! — too well they knew 
The mitred king behind the throne ; — 

The sails were set, the pennons flew, 
And westward ho ! for worlds un- 
known. 

— And these were they who gave us 
birth, 

The Pilgrims of the sunset wave, 
Who won for us this virgin earth, 

And freedom with the soil they gave. 

The pastor slumbers by the Rhine, — 
In alien earth the exiles lie, — 

Their nameless graves our holiest shrine, 
His words our noblest battle-cry ! 



ST. ANTHONY THE REFORMER. — OPENING OF THE PIANO. 181 



Still cry them, and the world shall hear, 
Ye dwellers by the storm-swept sea ! 

Ye have not built by Haerlem Meer, 
Nor on the land-locked Zuyder-Zee ! 



8T. ANTHONY THE REFORMER. 

HIS TEMPTATION". 

No fear lest praise should make us proud ! 

We know how cheaply that is won ; 
The idle homage of the crowd 

Is proof of tasks as idly done. 

A surfaee-smile may pay the toil 
That follows still the conquering 
Right, 
With soft, white hands to dress the spoil 
That sun-browned valor clutched in 
fight. 

Sing the sweet song of other days, 

Serenely placid, safely true, 
And o'er the present's parching ways 

The verse distils like evening dew. 

But speak in words of living power, — 
They fall like drops of scalding rain 

That plashed before the burning shower 
Swept o'er the cities of the plain ! 

Then scowling Hate turns deadly pale, — 
Then Passion's half-coiled adders 
spring, 

And, smitten through their leprous mail, 
Strike right and left in hope to sting. 

If thou, unmoved by poisoning wrath, 
Thy feet on earth, thy heart above, 

Canst walk in peace thy kingly path, 
Unchanged in trust, unchilled in 
love, — 

Too kind for bitter words to grieve, 
Too firm for clamor to dismay, 

When Faith forbids thee to believe, 
And Meekness calls to disobey, — 



Ah, then beware of mortal pride ! 

The smiling pride that calmly scorns 
Those foolish fingers, crimson dyed 

In laboring on thy crown of thorns ! 



THE OPENING OF THE PIANO. 

In the little southern parlor of the house 

you may have seen 
With the gambrel-roof, and the gable 

looking westward to the green, 
At the side toward the sunset, with the 

window on its right, 
Stood the London-made piano I am 

dreaming of to-night ! 

Ah me ! how I remember the evening 

when it came ! 
What a cry of eager voices, what a group 

of cheeks in flame, 
When the wondrous box was opened 

that had come from over seas, 
With its smell of mastic- varnish and 

its flash of ivory keys ! 

Then the children all grew fretful in the 

restlessness of joy ; 
For the boy would push his sister, and 

the sister crowd the boy, 
Till the father asked for quiet in his 

grave paternal way, 
But the mother hushed the tumult with 

the words, "Now, Mary, play." 

For the dear soul knew that music was 

a very sovereign balm ; 
She had sprinkled it over Sorrow and 

seen its brow grow calm, 
In the days of slender harpsichords with 

tapping tinkling quills, 
Or carolling to her spinet with its thi» 

metallic thrills. 

So Mary, the household minstrel, who 
always loved to please, 



182 POEMS FEOM THE PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



Sat down to the new " Clemen ti," and 
struck the glittering keys. 

Hushed were the children's voices, and 
every eye grew dim, 

As, floating from lip and finger, arose 
the "Vesper Hymn." 

— Catharine, child of a neighbor, curly 
and rosy-red, 

(Wedded since, and a widow, — some- 
thing like ten years dead,) 

Hearing a gush of music such as none 
before, 

Steals from her mother's chamber and 
peeps at the open door. 

Just as the "Jubilate" in threaded 
whisper dies, 

" Open it ! open it, lady ! " the little 
maiden cries, 

(For she thought 't was a singing crea- 
ture caged in a box she heard,) 

"Open it ! open it, lady ! and let me 
see the bird/" 



MIDSUMMER. 

Here ! sweep these foolish leaves away, 
t will not crush my brains to-day ! 
Look ! are the southern curtains drawn ? 
Fetch me a fan, and so begone ! 

Not that, — the palm-tree's rustling leaf 
Brought from a parching coral-reef ! 
Its breath is heated ; — I would swing 
The broad gray plumes, — the eagle's 
wing. 

I hate these roses' feverish blood ! — 
Pluck me a half-blown lily-bud, 
A long-stemmed lily from the lake, 
Cold as a coiling water-snake. 

Rain me sweet odors on the air, 
And wheel me up my Indian chair, 



And spread some book not overwise 
Flat out before my sleepy eyes. 

— "Who knows it not, — this dead recoil 
Of weary fibres stretched with toil, — 
The pulse that flutters faint and low 
When Summer's seething breezes blow ! 

Nature ! bare thy loving breast, 
And give thy child one hour of rest, — 
One little hour to lie unseen 
Beneath thy scarf of leafy green ! 

So, curtained by a singing pine, 

Its murmuring voice shall blend with 

mine, 
Till, lost in dreams, my faltering lay 
In sweeter music dies away. 



DE SAUTY. 

AN ELECTRO-CHEMICAL ECLOGUE. 

Professor. Blue-Nose. 

PROFESSOR. 

Tell me, Provincial ! speak, Ceruleo- 

Nasal ! 
Lives there one De Sauty extant now 

among you, 
Whispering Boanerges, son of silent 

thunder, 
Holding talk with nations ? 

Is there a De Sauty ambulant on Tellus, 
Bifid-cleft like mortals, dormient in 

nightcap, 
Having sight, smell, hearing, food-re- 

ceiving feature 
Three times daily patent ? 

Breathes there such a being, Ceruleo- 

Nasal ? 
Or is he a mythus, — ancient word for 

"humbug," — 



DE SAUTY. 



183 



Such as Livy told about the wolf that 
wet-nursed 
Romulus and Remus ? 

Was he horn of woman, this alleged De 

Sauty? 
Or a living product of galvanic action, 
Like the acarus bred in Crosse's flint-so- 
lution ? 
Speak, thou Cyano-Rhinal ! 

BLUE-NOSE. 

Many things thou askest, jackknife- 

bearing stranger, 
Much-conjecturing mortal, pork-and- 

treacle-waster ! 
Pretermit thy whittling, wheel thine 

ear-flap toward me, 
Thou shalt hear them answered. 

When the charge galvanic tingled 

through the cable, 
At the polar focus of the wire electric 
Suddenly appeared a white-faced man 
among us : 
Called himself "De Sauty." 

i^B the small opossum held in pouch 

maternal 
Grasps the nutrient organ whence the 

term mammalia, 
So the unknown stranger held the wire 

electric, 
Sucking in the current. 

When the current strengthened, bloomed 
the pale-faced stranger, — 

T^ok no drink nor victual, yet grew fat 
and rosy, — 



And from time to time, in sharp articu- 
lation, 
Said, "All right/ De Sauty." 

From the lonely station passed the utter- 
ance, spreading 

Through the pines and hemlocks to the 
groves of steeples, 

Till the land was filled with loud rever- 
berations 
Of ' ' All right / De Sauty. " 

When the current slackened, drooped 

the mystic stranger, — 
Faded, faded, faded, as the stream grew 

weaker, — 
Wasted to a shadow, with a hartshorn 

odor 
Of disintegration. 

Drops of deliquescence glistened on his 

forehead, 
Whitened round his feet the dust of 

efflorescence, 
Till one Monday morning, when the flow 

suspended, 
There was no De Sauty. 

Nothing but a cloud of elements organic, 
C. 0. H. N. Ferrum, Chlor. Flu. Sil. 

Potassa, 
Calc. Sod. Phosph. Mag. Sulphur, 

Mang. (?) Alumin. (?) Cuprum, (?) 
Such as man is made of. 

Born of stream galvanic, with it he had 

perished ! 
There is no De Sauty now there is no 

current ! 
Give us a new cable, then again we 'U 

hear him 
Cry, "All right/ De Saukt." 



POEMS 



FEOM THE 



POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 




POEMS 



FROM THE 



POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



1871-1873. 



HOMESICK IN HEAVEN. 

THE DIVINE VOICE. 

Go seek thine earth-born sisters, — thus 
the Voice 
That all ohey, — the sad and silent 
three ; 
These only, while the hosts of Heaven 
rejoice, 
Smile never : ask them what their 
sorrows be : 

And when the secret of their griefs they 
tell, 
Look on them with thy mild, half- 
human eyes ; 
Say what thou wast on earth ; thou 
knowest well ; 
So shall they cease from unavailing 
sighs. 

THE ANGEL. 

— Why thus, apart, — the swift- winged 
herald spake, — 
Sit ye with silent lips and unstrung 
lyres 
While the trisagion's blending chords 
awake 
In shouts of joy from all the heavenly 
choirs ? 

THE FIRST SPIRIT. 

*-» Chide not thy sisters, — thus the an- 
swer came ; — 



Children of earth, our half-weaned 
nature clings 
To earth's fond memories, and her whis* 
pered name 
Untunes our quivering lips, our sad- 
dened strings ; 

For there we loved, and where we love 
is home, 
Home that our feet may leave, but not 
our hearts, 
Though o'er us shine the jasper-lighted 
dome : — 
The chain may lengthen, but it never 
parts ! 

Sometimes a sunlit sphere comes rolling 

by, 

And then we softly whisper, — can it 
be? 
And leaning toward the silvery orb, we 
try 
To hear the music of its murmuring 
sea ; 

To catch, perchance, some flashing 
glimpse of green, 
Or breathe some wild- wood fragrance, 
wafted through 
The opening gates of pearl, that fold 
between 
The blinding splendors and the change* 
less blue. 



186 POEMS FKOM THE POET AT THE BEEAKFAST TABLE. 



THE ANGEL. 

— Nay, sister, nay ! a single healing leaf 
Plucked from the bough of yon twelve- 
fruited tree, 
Would soothe such anguish, — deeper 
stabbing grief 
Has pierced thy throbbing heart — 

THE FIRST SPIRIT. 

— Ah, woe is me ! 

I from my clinging babe was rudely 
torn ; 
His tender lips a loveless bosom 
pressed ; 
Can I forget him in my life new born ? 
O that my darling lay upon my breast ! 



THE ANGEL. 



— And thou ? • 



THE SECOND SPIRIT. 

I was a fair and youthful bride, 
The kiss of love still burns upon my 
cheek, 
He whom T worshipped, ever at my 
side, — 
Him through the spirit realm in vain 
I seek. 

Sweet faces turn their beaming eyes on 
mine ; 
Ah ! not in these the wished-for look 
I read ; 
Still for that one dear human smile I 
pine ; 
Thou and none other I — is the lover's 
creed. 

THE ANGEL. 

— And whence thy sadness in a world 
of bliss 
Where never parting comes, nor 
mourner's tear? 
Art thou, too, dreaming of a mortal's kiss 
Amid the seraphs of the heavenly 
sphere ? 



THE THIRD SPIRIT. 

— Kay, tax not me with passion's wast« 

ing fire ; 

When the swift message set my spirit 
free, 
Blind, helpless, lone, I left my gray- 
haired sire ; 

My friends were many, he had none 
save me. 

I left him, orphaned, in the starless 
night ; 
Alas, for him no cheerful morning's 
dawn ! 
I wear the ransomed spirit's robe of 
white, 
Yet still I hear him moaning, She is 
gone! 

THE ANGEL. 

— Ye know me not, sweet sisters ? — All 

in vain 
Ye seek your lost ones in the shapes 

they wore; 
The flower once opened may not bud 

again, 
The fruit once fallen finds the stem 

no more. 

Child, lover, sire, — yea, all things 
loved below, — 
Fair pictures damasked on a vapor's 
fold, — 
Fade like the roseate flush, the golden 
glow, 
When the bright curtain of the day 
is rolled. 

/ was the babe that slumbered on thy 
breast. 

— And, sister, mine the lips that called 

thee bride. 
• — Mine were the silvered locks thy hand 
caressed, 
That faithful hand, my faltering foot- 
step's guide ! 



FANTASIA. — AUNT TABITHA. 



187 



Each changing form, frail vesture of 
decay, 
The soul unclad forgets it once hath 
worn, 
Stained with the travel of the weary day, 
And shamed with rents from every 
wayside thorn. 

To lie, an infant, in thy fond embrace, — 
To come with love's warm kisses back 
to thee, — 
To show thine eyes *hy gray-haired fa- 
ther's face, 
Not Heaven itself could grant ; this 
may not be ! 

Then spread your folded wings, and 
leave to earth 
The dust once breathing ye have 
mourned so long, 
Till Love, new risen, owns his heavenly 
birth, 
And sorrow's discords sweeten into 
song ! 



FANTASIA. 

THE YOUNG GIRL'S POEM. 

Kiss mine eyelids, beauteous Morn, 
Blushing into life new-born ! 
Lend me violets for my hair, 
And thy russet robe to wear, 
And thy ring of rosiest hue 
Set in drops of diamond dew ! 

Kiss my cheek, thou noontide ray, 
From my Love so far away ! 
Let thy splendor streaming down 
Turn its pallid lilies brown, 
Till its darkening shades reveal 
Where his passion pressed its seal .' 

Kiss my lips, thou Lord of light, 
Kiss my lips a soft good-night ! 



"Westward sinks thy golden car ; 
Leave me but the evening star, 
And my solace that shall be, 
Borrowing all its light from thee ! 



AUNT TABITHA. 

THE YOUNG GIRL'S POEM. 

Whatever I do, and whatever I say, 
Aunt Tabitha tells me that isn't the 

way; 
When she was a girl (forty summers ago) 
Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so. 

Dear aunt ! If I only would take her 

advice ! 
But I like my own way, and I find it so 

nice ! 
And besides, I forget half the things I 

am told ; 
But they all will come back to me — 

when I am old. 

If a youth passes by, it may happen, no 

doubt, 
He may chance to look in as I chance to 

look out ; 
She would never endure an impertinent 

stare, — 
It is horrid, she says, and I must n't sit 

there. 

A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, 

I own, 
But it is n't quite safe to be walking 

alone ; 
So I take a lad's arm, — just for safety, 

you know, — 
But Aunt Tabitha tells me they did n't 

do so. 

How wicked we are, and how good they 

were then ! 
They kept at arm's length those detests 

ble men i 



188 



POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



What an era of virtue she lived in ! — 

But stay — 
Were the men all such rogues in Aunt 

Tabitha'sday? 

If the men were so wicked, I '11 ask my 
papa 

How he dared to propose to my darling 
mamma ; 

Was he like the rest of them ? Good- 
ness ! Who knows ? 

And what shall / sav, if a wretch should 
propose ? 

I am thinking if Aunt knew so little of 

sin, 
What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt 

must have been ! 
And her grand-aunt — it scares me — 

how shockingly sad 
That we girls of to-day are so frightfully 

bad! 

A martyr will save us, and nothing else 

can ; 
Let me perish — to rescue some wretched 

young man ! 
Though when to the altar a victim T go, 
Aunt Tabitha 11 tell me she never did so ! 



WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRIFTS. 

FROM THE YOUNG ASTRONOMER'S POEM. 

I. 

AMBITION. 

Another clouded night ; the stars are 

hid, 
The orb that waits my search is hid with 

them. 
Patience ! Why grudge an hour, a 

month, a year, 
To plant my ladder and to gain the 

round 



That leads my footsteps to the heaven 

of fame, 
Where waits the wreath my sleepless 

midnights won ? 
Not the stained laurel such as heroes 

wear 
That withers when some stronger con- 
queror's heel 
Treads down their shrivelling trophies 

in the dust ; 
But the fair garland whose undying 

green 
Not time can change, nor wrath of gods 

or men ! 

With quickened heart-beats I shall 

hear the tongues 
That speak my praise ; but better far 

the sense 
That in the unshaped ages, buried deep 
In the dark mines of unaccomplished 

time 
Yet to be stamped with morning's royal 

die 
And coined in golden days, — in those 

dim years 
I shall be reckoned with the undying 

dead, 
My name emblazoned on the fiery arch, 
Unfading till the stars themselves shall 

fade. 
Then, as they call the roll of shining. 

worlds, 
Sages of race unborn in accents new 
Shall count me with the Olympian ones 

of old, 
Whose glories kindle through the mid- 
night sky : 
Here glows the God of Battles ; this 

recalls 
The Lord of Ocean, and yon far-off sphere 
The Sire of Him who gave his ancient 

name 
To the dim planet with the wondrous 

rings ; 



WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRLFTS. 



189 



Here flames the Queen of Beauty's silver 
lamp, 

And there the moon -girt orb of mighty 
Jove ; 

But this, unseen through all earth's seons 
past, 

A youth who watched beneath the west- 
ern star 

Sought in the darkness, found, and 
shewed to men ; 

Linked with his name thenceforth and 
evermore ! 

So shall that name be syllabled anew 

In all the tongues of all the tribes of 
men : 

I that have been through immemorial 
years 

Dust in the dust of my forgotten time 

Shall live in accents shaped of blood- 
warm breath, 

Yea, rise in mortal semblance, newly 
born 

In shining stone, in undecaying bronze, 

And stand on high, and look serenely 
down 

On the new race that calls the earth its 
own. 

Is this a cloud, that, blown athwart 
my soul, 

Wears a false seeming of the pearly stain 

Where worlds beyond the world their 
mingling rays 

Blend in soft white, — a cloud that, born 
of earth, 

Would cheat the soul that looks for light 
from heaven ? 

Must every coral-insect leave his sign 

On each poor grain he lent to build the 
reef, 

As Babel's builders stamped their sun- 
burnt clay, 

Or deem his patient service all in vain ? 

What if another sit beneath the shade 

Of the broad elm I planted by the way, — 



What if another heed the beacon light 

I set upon the rock that wrecked my 
keel, — 

Have I not done my task and served my 
kind? 

Nay, rather act thy part, unnamed, un- 
known, 

And let Fame blow her trumpet through 
the world 

With noisy wind to swell a fool's re- 
nown, 

Joined with some truth he stumbled 
blindl} r o'er, 

Or coupled with some single shining 
deed 

That in the great account of all his 
days 

Will stand alone upon the bankrupt 
sheet 

His pitying angel shows the clerk of 
Heaven. 

The noblest service comes from nameless 
hands, 

And the best servant does his work un- 
seen. 

Who found the seeds of fire and made 
them shoot, 

Fed by his breath, in buds and flowers 
of flame ? 

Who forged in roaring flames the pon- 
derous stone, 

And shaped the moulded metal to hia 
need? 

Who gave the dragging car its rolling 
wheel, 

And tamed the steed that whirls its 
circling round ? 

All these have left their work and not 
their names, — 

Why should I murmur at a fate like 
theirs ? 

This is the heavenly light ; the pearly 
stain 

Was but a wind-cloud drifting o'er the 
stars \ 



190 



POEMS FEOM THE POET AT THE BKEAKFAST TABLE. 



II. 

REGRETS. 

Brief glimpses of the bright celestial 

spheres, 
False lights, false shadows, vague, un- 
certain gleams, 
Pale vaporous mists, wan streaks of lurid 

flame, 
The climbing of the upward-sailing 

cloud, 
The sinking of the downward-falling 

star, — 
All these are pictures of the changing 

moods 
Borne through the midnight stillness of 

my soul. 

Here am I, bound upon this pillared 

rock, 
Prey to the vulture of a vast desire 
That feeds upon my life. I burst my 

bands 
And steal a moment's freedom from the 

beak, 
The clinging talons and the shadowing 

plumes ; 
Then comes the false enchantress, with 

her song ; 
"Thou wouldst not lay thy forehead in 

the dust 
Like the base herd that feeds and breeds 

and dies ! 
Lo, the fair garlands that I weave for 

thee, 
Unchanging as the belt Orion wears, 
Bright as the jewels of the seven-starred 

Crown, 
The spangled stream of Berenice's hair ! " 
And so she twines the fetters with the 

flowers 
Around my yielding limbs, and the fierce 

bird 
Stoops to his quarry, — then to feed his 

rage 



Of ravening hunger I must drain my 

blood 
And let the dew-drenched, poison-breed* 

ing night 
Steal all the freshness from my fading 

cheek, 
And leave its shadows round my cav- 

erned eyes. 
All for a line in some unheeded scroll ; 
All for a stone that tells to gaping 

clowns, 
"Here lies a restless wretch beneath a 

clod 
Where squats the jealous nightmare men 

call Fame ! " 

I marvel not at him who scorns his 

kind 
And thinks not sadly of the time fore- 
told 
When the old hulk we tread shall be a 

wreck, 
A slag, a cinder drifting through the 

sky 
Without its crew of fools ! We live too 

long 
And even so are not content to die, 
But load the mould that covers up our 

bones 
With stones that stand like beggars by 

the road 
And show death's grievous wound and 

ask for tears ; 
Write our great books to teach men who 

we are, 
Sing our fine songs that tell in artful 

phrase 
The secrets of our lives, and plead and 

pray 
For alms of memory with the after time, 
Those few swift seasons while the eartL. 

shall wear 
Its leafy summers, ere its core grows cold 
And the moist life of all that breathe?. 

shall die ; 



WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DELFTS. 



191 



Or as the new-born seer, perchance more 

wise, 
Would have us deem, before its growing 

mass, 
Pelted with star-dust, stoned with me- 
teor-balls, 
Heats like a hammered anvil, till at last 
Man and his works and all that stirred 

itself 
Of its own motion, in the fiery glow 
Turns to a flaming vapor, and our orb 
Shines a new sun for earths that shall be 
born. 

I am as old as Egypt to myself, 

Brother to them that squared the pyra- 
mids 

By the same stars I watch. I read the 
page 

Where every letter is a glittering world, 

With them who looked from Shinar's 
clay-built towers, 

Ere yet the wanderer of the Midland 
sea 

Had missed the fallen sister of the seven. 

I dwell in spaces vague, remote, un- 
known, 

Save to the silent few, who, leaving 
earth, 

Quit all communion with their living 
time. 

I lose myself in that ethereal void, 

Till I have tired my wings and long to 
fill 

My breast with denser air, to stand, to 
walk 

With eyes not raised above my fellow- 
men. 

Sick of my unwalled, solitary realm, 

I ask to change the myriad lifeless 
worlds 

I visit as mine own for one poor patch 

Of this dull spheroid and a little breath 

To ehape in word or deed to serve my 
kind. 



Was ever giant's dungeon dug so deep, 
Was ever tyrant's fetter forged so strong, 
Was e'er such deadly poison in the 

draught 
The false wife mingles for the trusting 

fool, 
As he whose willing victim is himself, 
Digs, forges, mingles, for his captive 

soul ? 



III. 

SYMPATHIES. 

The snows that glittered on the disk of 

Mars 
Have melted, and the planet's fiery orb 
Rolls in the crimson summer of its year : 
But what to me the summer or the snow 
Of worlds that throb with life in forms 

unknown, 
If life indeed be theirs ; I heed not 

these. 
My heart is simply human ; all my care 
For them whose dust is fashioned like 

mine own ; 
These ache with cold and hunger, live 

in pain, 
And shake with fear of worlds more full 

of woe ; 
There may be others worthier of my 

love, 
But such I know not save through these 

I know. 

There are two veils of language, hid be- 
neath 

Whose sheltering folds, we dare to be 
ourselves ; 

And not that other self which nods and 
smiles 

And babbles in our name ; the one is 
Prayer, 

Lending its licensed freedom to the 
tongue 



192 



POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



That tells our sorrows and our sins to 

Heaven ; 
The other, Verse, that throws its spangled 

web 
Around our naked speech and makes it 

hold. 
I, whose best prayer is silence ; sitting 

dumb 
In the great temple where I nightly 

serve 
Him who is throned in light, have dared 

to claim 
The poet's franchise, though I may not 

hope 
To wear his garland ; hear me while I 

tell 
My story in such form as poets use, 
But breathed in fitful whispers, as the 

wind 
Sighs and then slumbers, wakes and 

sighs again. 

Thou Vision, floating in the breathless 

air 
Between me and the fairest of the stars, 
I tell my lonely thoughts as unto thee. 
Look not for marvels of the scholar's pen 
In my rude measure ; I can only show 
A slender-margined, unillumined page, 
And trust its meaning to the flattering 

eye 
That reads it in the gracious light of 

love. 
Ah, wouldst thou clothe thyself in 

breathing shape 
And nestle at my side, my voice should 

lend 
Whate'er my verse may lack of tender 

rhythm 
To make thee listen. 

I have stood entranced 
When, with her fingers wandering o'er 

the keys, 
The white enchantress with the golden 

hair 



Breathed all her soul through some un- 
valued rhyme ; 

Some flower of song that long had lost 
its bloom ; 

Lo ! its dead summer kindled as she 
sang ! 

The sweet contralto, like the ringdove's 
coo, 

Thrilled it with brooding, fond, caress- 
ing tones, 

And the pale minstrel's passion lived 
again, 

Tearful and trembling as a dewy rose 

The wind has shaken till it tills the air 

With light and fragrance. Such the 
wondrous charm 

A song can borrow when the bosom 
throbs 

That lends it breath. 

So from the poet's lips 

His verse sounds doubly sweet, for none 
like him 

Feels every cadence of its wave-like 
flow ; 

He lives the passion over, while he reads, 

That shook him as he sang his lofty 
strain, 

And pours his life through each resound- 
ing line, 

As ocean, when the stormy winds are 
hushed, 

Still rolls and thunders through his bil- 
lowy caves. 



IV. 

MASTER AND SCHOLAR. 

Let me retrace the record of the years 
That made me what I am. A man most 

wise, 
But overworn with toil and bent with 

age, 
Sought me to be his scholar, — me, run 

wild 



WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRIFTS. 



193 



From books and teachers, — kindled in 

my soul 
The love of knowledge ; led me to his 

tower, 
Showed me the wonders of the midnight 

realm 
His hollow sceptre ruled, or seemed to 

rule, 
Taught me the mighty secrets of the 

spheres, 
Trained me to find the glimmering specks 

of light 
Beyond the unaided sense, and on my 

chart 
To string them one by one, in order due, 
As on a rosary a saint his beads. 
I was his only scholar ; I became 
The echo to his thought ; whate'er he 

knew 
Was mine for asking ; so from year to 

year 
We wrought together, till there came a 

time 
When I, the learner, was the master 

half 
Of the twinned being in the dome- 
crowned tower. 

Minds roll in paths like planets ; they 

revolve 
This in a larger, that a narrower ring, 
But round they come at last to that same 

phase, 
That selfsame light and shade they 

showed before. 
I learned his annual and his monthly 

tale, 
His weekly axiom and his daily phrase, 
I felt them coming in the laden air, 
And watched them laboring up to vocal 

breath, 
Even as the first-born at his father's 

board 
Knows ere he speaks the too familiar 

jest 



Is on its way, by some mysterious 

sign 
Forewarned, the click before the striking 

bell. 

He shrivelled as I spread my growing 
leaves, 

Till trust and reverence changed to pity- 
ing care ; 

He lived for me in what he once had 
been, 

But I for him, a shadow, a defence, 

The guardian of his fame, his guide, his 
staff, 

Leaned on so long he fell if left alone. 

I was his eye, his ear, his cunning 
hand, 

Love was my spur and longing after 
fame, 

But his the goading thorn of sleepless 
age 

That sees its shortening span, its length- 
ening shades, 

That clutches what it may with eager 
grasp, 

And drops at last with empty, out- 
stretched hands. 
All this he dreamed not. He would 
sit him down 

Thinking to work his problems as of 
old, 

And find the star he thought so plain a 
blur, 

The columned figures labyrinthine wilds 

Without my comment, blind and sense- 
less scrawls 

That vexed him with their riddles ; he 
would strive 

And struggle for a while, and then his 
eye 

Would lose its light, and over all his 
mind 

The cold gray mist would settle ; and 
erelong 

The darkness fell, and I was left alone. 



194 POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



V. 

ALONE. 

Alone ! no climber of an Alpine cliff, 
No Arctic venturer on the waveless sea, 
Feels the dread stillness round him as it 

chills 
The heart of him who leaves the slum- 
bering earth 
To watch the silent worlds that crowd 
the sky. 

Alone ! And as the shepherd leaves his 

flock 
To feed upon the hillside, he meanwhile 
Finds converse in the warblings of the 

pipe 
Himself has fashioned for his vacant 

hour, 
So have I grown companion to myself, 
And to the wandering spirits of the air 
That smile and whisper round us in our 

dreams. 
Thus have I learned to search if I may 

know 
The whence and why of all beneath the 

stars 
And all beyond them, and to weigh my 

life 
As in a balance. -— poising good and ill 
Against each other, — asking of the 

Power 
That flung me forth among the whirling 

worlds, 
If I am heir to any inborn right, 
Or only as an atom of the dust 
That every wind may blow where'er it 

will. 

VI. 

QUESTIONING. 

I AM not humble ; I was shown my 
place, 
Clad in such robes as Nature had at 
hand; 



Took what she gave, not chose ; I know 

no shame, 
No fear for being simply what I am. 
I am not proud, I hold my every breath 
At Nature's mercy. I am as a babe 
Borne in a giant's arms, he knows not 

where ; 
Each several heart-beat, counted like the 

coin 
A miser reckons, is a special gift 
As from an unseen hand ; if that with- 
hold 
Its bounty for a moment, I am left 
A clod upon the earth to which I fall. 

Something I find in me that well might 

claim 
The love of beings in a sphere above 
This doubtful twilight world of right 

and wrong ; 
Something that shows me of the self- 
same clay 
That creeps or swims or flies in humblest 

form. 
Had I been asked, before I left my bed 
Of shapeless dust, what clothing I would 

wear, 
I would have said, More angel and less 

worm ; 
But for their sake who are even such as I, 
Of the same mingled blood, I would not 

choose 
To hate that meaner portion of myself 
Which makes me brother to the least of 

men. 

I dare not be a coward with my lips 
Who dare to question all things in my 

soul ; 
Some men may find their wisdom on 

their knees, 
Some prone and grovelling in the dusi 

like slaves ; 
Let the meek glowworm glisten in th« 

dew; 



WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRIFTS. 



19 



I ask to lift my taper to the sky 

As they who hold their lamps above 

their heads, 
Trusting the larger currents up aloft, 
Rather than crossing eddies round their 

breast, 
Threatening with every puff the flicker- 
ing blaze. 

My life shall be a challenge, not a truce ! 
This is my homage to the mightier 

powers, 
To ask my boldest question, undismayed 
By muttered threats that some hysteric 

sense 
Of wrong or insult will convulse the 

throne 
Where wisdom reigns supreme ; and if I 

err, 
They all must err who have to feel their 

way 
As bats that fly at noon ; for what are we 
But creatures of the night, dragged forth 

by day, 
Who needs must stumble, and with 

stammering steps 
Spell out their paths in syllables of pain ? 

Thou wilt not hold in scorn the child 

who dares 
Look up to Thee, the Father, — dares to 

ask 
More than Thy wisdom answers. From 

Thy hand 
The worlds were cast ; yet every leaflet 

claims 
From that same hand its little shining 

sphere 
Of star-lit dew ; thine image, the great 

sun, 
Girt with his mantle of tempestuous 

flame, 
Glares in mid-heaven ; but to his noon- 
tide blaze 
The slender violet lifts its lidless eye, 



And from his splendor steals its fairest 

hue, 
Its sweetest perfume from his scorching 

fire. 

VII. 

WORSHIP. 

From my lone turret as I look around 

O'er the green meadows to the ring of 
blue, 

From slope, from summit, and from 
half-hid vale 

The sky is stabbed with dagger-pointed 
spires, 

Their gilded symbols whirling in the 
wind, 

Their brazen tongues proclaiming to 
the world, 

" Here truth is sold, the only genuine 
ware ; 

See that it has our trade-mark ! You 
will buy 

Poison instead of food across the way, 

The lies of " this or that, each sev- 
eral name 

The standard's blazon and the battle- 
cry 

Of some true-gospel faction, and again 

The token of the Beast to all beside. 

And grouped round each I see a hud- 
dling crowd 

Alike in all things save the words they 
use ; 

In love, in longing, hate and fear the 
same. 

Whom do we trust and serve ? We 

speak of one 
And bow to many ; Athens still would 

find 
The shrines of all she worshipped safe 

within 
Our tall barbarian temples, and the 

thrones 



196 



POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



That crowned Olympus mighty as of old. 
The god of music rules the Sabbath 

choir ; 
The lyric muse must leave the sacred 

nine 
To help us please the dilettante's ear ; 
Plutus limps homeward with us, as we 

leave 
The portals of the temple where we knelt 
And listened while the god of eloquence 
(Hermes of ancient days, but now dis- 
guised 
In sable vestments) with that other god 
Somnus, the son of Erebus and Nox, 
Fights in unequal contest for our souls ; 
The dreadful sovereign of the under 

world 
Still shakes his sceptre at us, and we hear 
The baying of the triple-throated hound ; 
Eros is young as ever, and as fair 
The lovely Goddess born of ocean's foam. 

These be thy gods, Israel ! "Who 

is he, 
The one ye name and tell us that ye 

serve, 
"Whom ye would call me from my lonely 

tower 
To worship with the many -headed 

throng ? 
Is it the God that walked in Eden's grove 
In the cool hour to seek our guilty sire ? 
The God who dealt with Abraham as 

the sons 
Of that old patriarch deal with other 

men ? 
The jealous God of Moses, one who feels 
An image as an insult, and is wroth 
"With him who made it and his child 

unborn ? 
The God who plagued his people for 

the sin 
Of their adulterous king, beloved of 

him, — 
The same who offers to a chosen few 



The right to praise him in eternal song 
"While a vast shrieking world of endless 

woe 
Blends its dread chorus with their rap- 
turous hymn ? 
Is this the God ye mean, or is it he 
"Who heeds the sparrow's fall, whose 

loving heart 
Is as the pitying father's to his child, 
"Whose lesson to his children is ' ' For- 
give," 
"Whose plea for all, "They know not 
what they do"? 

VIII. 
MANHOOD. 

I claim the right of knowing whom 

I serve, 
Else is my service idle ; He that asks 
My homage asks it from a reasoning soul. 
To crawl is not to worship ; we have 

learned 
A drill of eyelids, bended neck and knee, 
Hanging our prayers on hinges, till we 

ape 
The flexures of the many-jointed worm. 
Asia has taught her Allans and salaams 
To the world's children, — we have 

grown to men ! 
We who have rolled the sphere beneath 

our feet 
To find a virgin forest, as we lay 
The beams of our rude temple, first of all 
Must frame its doorway high enough 

for man 
To pass unstooping ; knowing as we do 
That He who shaped us last of living 

forms 
Has long enough been served by creep- 
ing things, 
Reptiles that left their footprints in 

the sand 
Of old sea-margins that have turned to 

stone, 



WIND-CLOUDS AND STAE-DKIFTS. 



197 



And men who learned their ritual ; we 

demand 
To know him first, then trust him and 

then love 
When we have found him worthy of our 

love, 
Tried by our own poor hearts and not 

before ; 
He must be truer than the truest friend, 
He must be tenderer than a woman's 

love, 
A father better than the best of sires ; 
Kinder than she who bore us, though 

we sin 
Oftener than did the brother we are told, 
We — poor ill-tempered mortals — must 

forgive, 
Though seven times sinning threescore 

times and ten. 

This is the new world's gospel : Be 

ye men ! 
Try well the legends of the children's 

time ; 
Ye are the chosen people, God has led 
Your steps across the desert of the deep 
As now across the desert of the shore ; 
Mountains are cleft before you as the 

sea 
Before the wandering tribe of Israel's 

sons ; 
Still onward rolls the thunderous cara- 
van, 
Its coming printed on the western sky, 
A cloud by day, by night a pillared 

flame; 
Your prophets are a hundred unto one 
Of them of old who cried, " Thus saith 

the Lord " ; 
They told of cities that should fall in 

heaps, 
But yours of mightier cities that shall 

rise 
Where yet the lonely fishers spread their 

nets, 



Where hides the fox and hoots the mid« 

night owl ; 
The tree of knowledge in your garden 

grows 
Not single, but at every humble door ; 
Its branches lend you their immortal 

food, 
That fills you with the sense of what 

ye are, 
No servants of an altar hewed and carved 
From senseless stone by craft of human 

hands, 
Rabbi, or dervish, brahmin, bishop 

bonze, 
But masters of the charm with which 

they work 
To keep your hands from that forbidden 

tree! 
Ye that have tasted that divinest fruit, 
Look on this world of yours with opened 

eyes ! 
Ye are as gods ! Nay, makers of your 

gods, — 
Each day ye break an image in your 

shrine 
And plant a fairer image where it stood : 
Where is the Moloch of your fathers' 

creed, 
Whose fires of torment burned for span- 
long babes ? 
Fit object for a tender mother's love ! 
Why not ? It was a bargain duly made 
For these same infants through the 

surety's act 
Intrusted with their all for earth and 

heaven, 
By Him who chose their guardian, 

knowing well 
His fitness for the task, — this, even 

this, 
Was the true doctrine only yesterday 
As thoughts are reckoned, — and to-day 

you hear 
In words that sound as if from human 

tongues 



198 POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



Those monstrous, uncouth horrors of 

the past 
That blot the blue of heaven and shame 

the earth 
As would the saurians of the age of 

slime, 
Awaking from their stony sepulchres 
And wallowing hateful in the eye of 

day! 

IX. 

RIGHTS. 

"What am I but the creature Thou hast 

made ? 
"What have I save the blessings Thou 

hast lent ? 
What hope I but Thy mercy and Thy 

love? 
Who but myself shall cloud my soul with 

fear? 
Whose hand protect me from myself but 

Thine? 
I claim the rights of weakness, I, the 

babe, 
Call on my sire to shield me from the 

ills 
That still beset my path, not trying me 
With snares beyond my wisdom or my 

strength, 
He knowing I shall use them to my 

harm, 
And find a tenfold misery in the sense 
That in my childlike folly I have sprung 
The trap upon myself as vermin use 
Drawn by the cunning bait to certain 

doom. 
Who wrought the wondrous charm that 

leads us on 
To sweet perdition, but the selfsame 

power 
That set the fearful engine to destroy 
His wretched offspring (as the Rabbis 

tell), 



And hid its yawning jaws and treacher« 

ous springs 
In such a show of innocent sweet flowers 
It lured the sinless angels and they fell ? 
Ah ! He who prayed the prayer of 

all mankind 
Summed in those few brief words the 

mightiest plea 
For erring souls before the courts of 

heaven, — 
Save us from being tempted, — lest we 

fall! 

If we are only as the potter's clay 
Made to be fashioned as the artist wills, 
And broken into shards if we offend 
The eye of Him who made us, it is well ; 
Such love as the insensate lump of clay 
That spins upon the swift-revolving 

wheel 
Bears to the hand that shapes its growing 

form, — 
Such love, no more, will be our hearts' 

return 
To the great Master-workman for his 

care, — 
Or would be, save that this, our breath- 
ing clay, 
Is intertwined with fine innumerous 

threads 
That make it conscious in its framer's 

hand ; 
And this He must remember who has 

filled 
These vessels with the deadly draught 

of life, — 
Life, that means death to all it claims. 

Our love 
Must kindle in the ray that streams 

from heaven, 
A faint reflection of the light divine ; 
The sun must warm the earth before the 

rose 
Can show her inmost heart-leaves to the 

sun. 



WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRIFTS. 



199 



He yields some fraction of the Maker's 

right 
"Who gives the quivering nerve its sense 

of pain ; 
Is there not something in the pleading 

eye 
Of the poor brute that suffers, which ar- 
raigns 
The law that bids it suffer ? Has it not 
A claim for some remembrance in the 

book 
That fills its pages with the idle words 
Spoken of men ? Or is it only clay, 
Bleeding and aching in the potter's hand, 
Yet all his own to treat it as he will 
And when he will to cast it at his feet, 
Shattered, dishonored, lost forevermore ? 
My dog loves me, but could he look be- 
yond 
His earthly master, would his love ex- 
tend 
To Him who — Hush ! I will not doubt 

that He 
Is better than our fears, and will not 

wrong 
The least, the meanest of created things ! 

He would not trust me with the small- 
est orb 

That circles through the sky ; he would 
not give 

A meteor to my guidance ; would not 
leave 

The coloring of a cloudlet to my hand ; 

He locks my beating heart beneath its 
bars 

And keeps the key himself; he meas- 
ures out 

The draughts of vital breath that warm 
my blood, 

"Winds up the springs of instinct which 
uncoil, 

Each in its season ; ties me to my home, 

My race, my time, my nation, and my 
creed 



So closely that if I but slip my wrist 
Out of the band that cuts it to the bone, 
Men say, "He hath a devil" ; he has lent 
All that I hold in trust, as unto one 
By reason of his weakness and his years 
Not fit to hold the smallest shred in fee 
Of those most common things he calls 

his own — 
And yet — my Rabbi tells me — he has 

left 
The care of that to which a million 

worlds 
Filled with unconscious life were less 

than naught, 
Has left that mighty universe, the Soul, 
To the weak guidance of our baby hands, 
Let the foul fiends have access at their 

will, 
Taking the shape of angels, to our 

hearts, — 
Our hearts already poisoned through and 

through 
With the fierce virus of ancestral sin ; 
Turned us adrift with our immortal 

charge, 
To wreck ourselves in gulfs of endless woe. 
If what my Rabbi tells me is the truth 
Why did the choir of angels sing for joy ? 
Heaven must be compassed in a nanow 

space, 
And offer more than room enough for all 
That pass its portals ; but the under- 
world, 
The godless realm, the place where 

demons forge 
Their fiery darts and adamantine chains, 
Must swarm with ghosts that for a little 

while 
Had worn the garb of flesh, and being 

heirs 
Of all the dulness of their stolid sires, 
And all the erring instincts of their 

tribe, 
Nature's own teaching, rudiments of 

"sin," 



200 POEMS FKOM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



Fell headlong in the snare that could 

not fail 
To trap the wretched creatures shaped 

of clay 
And cursed with sense enough to lose 

their souls ! 
Brother, thy heart is troubled at my 

word ; 
Sister, I see the cloud is on thy brow. 
He will not blame me, He who sends not 

peace, 
But sends a sword, and bids us strike 

amain 
At Error's gilded crest, where in the van 
Of earth's great army, mingling with the 

best 
And bravest of its leaders, shouting loud 
The battle-cries that yesterday have 

led 
The host of Truth to victory, but to-day 
Are watchwords of the laggard and the 

slave, 
He leads his dazzled cohorts. God has 

made 
This world a strife of atoms and of 

spheres ; 
With every breath I sigh myself away 
And take my tribute from the wandering 

wind 
To fan the flame of life's consuming fire ; 
So, while my thought has life, it needs 

must burn, 
And burning, set the stubble-fields 

ablaze, 
Where all the harvest long ago was 

reaped 
And safely garnered in the ancient barns, 
But still the gleaners, groping for their 

food, 
Go blindly feeling through the close- 
shorn straw, 
While the young reapers flash their glit- 
tering steel 
Where later suns have ripened nobler 

grain I 



X. 



TRUTH& 

The time is racked with birth-pangs; 

every hour 
Brings forth some gasping truth, and 

truth new-born 
Looks a misshapen and untimely 

growth, 
The terror of the household and its 

shame, 
A monster coiling in its nurse's lap 
That some would strangle, some would 

only starve ; 
But still it breathes, and passed from 

hand to hand, 
And suckled at a hundred half-clad 

breasts, 
Comes slowly to its stature and its form, 
Calms the rough ridges of its dragon- 
scales, 
Changes to shining locks its snaky 

hair, 
And moves transfigured into angel guise, 
Welcomed by all that cursed its hour of 

birth, 
And folded in the same encircling arms 
That cast it like a serpent from their 

hold! 

If thou wouldst live in honor, die in 

peace, 
Have the fine words the marble-workers 

learn 
To carve so well, upon thy funeral-stone, 
And earn a fair obituary, dressed 
In all the many-colored robes of praise, 
Be deafer than the adder to the cry 
Of that same foundling truth, until it 

grows 
To seemly favor, and at length has won 
The smiles of hard-mouthed men and 

light-lipped dames ; 
Then snatch it from its meagre nurse's 

breast, 



WIND-CLOUDS AND STAK-DKIFTS. 



201 



Fold it in silk and give it food from 

gold; 
So shalt thou share its glory when at 

last 
It drops its mortal vesture, and revealed 
In all the splendor of its heavenly form, 
Spreads on the startled air its mighty 

wings ! 

Alas ! how much that seemed immor- 
tal truth 

That heroes fought for, martyrs died to 
save, 

Reveals its earth-born lineage, growing 
old 

And limping in its march, its wings un- 
plumed, 

Its heavenly semblance faded like a 
dream ! 
Here in this painted casket, just un- 
sealed, 

Lies what was once a breathing shape 
like thine, 

Once loved as thou art loved ; there 
beamed the eyes 

That looked on Memphis in its hour of 
pride, 

That saw the walls of hundred-gated 
Thebes, 

And all the mirrored glories of the Nile. 

See how they toiled that all-consuming 
time 

Might leave the frame immortal in its 
tomb ; 

Filled it with fragrant balms and odor- 
ous gums 

That still diffuse their sweetness through 
the air, 

And wound and wound with patient fold 
on fold 

The flaxen bands thy hand has rudely 
torn ! 

Perchance thou yet canst see the faded 
stain 

Of the sad mourner's tear. 



XI. 

IDOLS. 

But what is this ? 
The sacred beetle, bound upon the breast 
Of the blind heathen ! Snatch the curi- 
ous prize, 
Give it a place among thy treasured 

spoils 
Fossil and relic, — corals, encrinites, 
The fly in amber and the fish in stone, 
The twisted circlet of Etruscan gold, 
Medal, intaglio, poniard, poison-ring, — 
Place for the Memphian beetle with 
thine hoard ! # 

Ah ! longer than thy creed has blest 
the world 

This toy, thus ravished from thy broth- 
er's breast, 

"Was to the heart of Mizraim as divine, 

As holy, as the symbol that we lay 

On the still bosom of our white-robed 
dead, 

And raise above their dust that all may 
know 

Here sleeps an heir of glory. Loving 
friends, 

With tears of trembling faith and chok- 
ing sobs, 

And prayers to those who judge of mor- 
tal deeds, 

Wrapped this poor image in the cere- 
ment's fold 

That Isis and Osiris, friends of man, 

Might know their own and claim the 
ransomed soul. 

An idol ? Man was born to worship 
such ! 

An idol is an image of his thought ; 

Sometimes he carves it out of gleaming 
stone, 

And sometimes moulds it out of glitter- 
ing gold, 



202 



POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



Or rounds it in a mighty frescoed dome, 
Or lifts it heavenward in a lofty spire, 
Or shapes it in a cunning frame of words, 
Or pays his priest to make it day by day ; 
For sense must have its god as well as 

soul; 
A new-born Dian calls for silver shrines, 
And Egypt's holiest symbol is our own, 
The sign we worship as did they of old 
When Isis and Osiris ruled the world. 

Let us be true to our most subtle 

selves, 
We long to have our idols like the rest. 
Think ! when the men of Israel had 

their God 
Encamped among them, talking with 

their chief, 
Leading them in the pillar of the cloud 
And watching o'er them in the shaft of 

fire, 
They still must have an image ; still 

they longed 
For somewhat of substantial, solid form 
Whereon to hang their garlands, and to 

fix 
Their wandering thoughts and gain a 

stronger hold 
For their uncertain faith, not yet assured 
If those same meteors of the day and 

night 
Were not mere exhalations of the soil. 
Are we less earthly than the chosen 

race ? 
Are we more neighbors of the living God 
Than they who gathered manna every 

morn, 
Reaping where none had sown, and heard 

the voice 
Of him who met the Highest in the 

mount, 
And brought them tables, graven with 

His hand ? 
Yet these must have their idol, brought 

their gold, 



That star-browed Apis might be god 

again ; 
Yea, from their ears the women brake 

the rings 
That lent such splendors to the gypsy 

brown 
Of sunburnt cheeks, — what more could 

woman do 
To show her pious zeal ? They went 

astray, 
But nature led them as it leads us alL 
We too, who mock at Israel's golden 

calf 
And scoff at Egypt's sacred scarabee, 
Would have our amulets to clasp and 

kiss, 
And flood with rapturous tears, and bear 

with us 
To be our dear companions in the dust ; 
Such magic works an image in our souls ! 

Man is an embryo ; see at twenty years 
His bones, the columns that uphold his 

frame 
Not yet cemented, shaft and capital, 
Mere fragments of the temple incom- 
plete. 
Attwoscore, threescore, is he then full 

grown ? 
Nay, still a child, and as the little maids 
Dress and undress their puppets, so he 

tries 
To dress a lifeless creed, as if it lived, 
And change its raiment when the world 

cries shame ! 
We smile to see our little ones at play 
So grave, so thoughtful, with maternal 

care 
Nursing the wisps of rags they call their 

babes ; — 
Does He not smile who sees us with the 

toys 
We call by sacred names, and idly feign 
To be what we have called them ? He 

is still 



WIND-CLOUDS AND STAK-DRIFTS. 



203 



The Father of this helpless nursery- 
brood, 
Whose second childhood joins so close 

its first, 
That in the crowding, hurrying years 

between 
We scarce have trained our senses to 

their task 
Before the gathering mist has dimmed 

our eyes, 
And with our hollowed palm we help 

our ear, 
And trace with trembling hand our 

wrinkled names, 
And then begin to tell our stories o'er, 
And see — not hear — the whispering 

lips that say, 
"You know ? Your father knew 

him. — This is he, 
Tottering and leaning on the hireling's 

arm," — 
And so, at length, disrobed of all that 

clad 
The simple life we share with weed and 

worm, 
Go to our cradles, naked as we came. 

XII. 

LOVE. 

What if a soul redeemed, a spirit that 

loved 
While yet on earth and was beloved in 

turn, 
And still remembered every look and 

tone 
Of that dear earthly sister who was left 
Among the unwise virgins at the gate, — 
Itself admitted with the bridegroom's 

train, — 
What if this spirit redeemed, amid the 

host 
Of chanting angels, in some transient 

toll 



Of the eternal anthem, heard the cry 
Of its lost darling, whom in evil hour 
Some wilder pulse of nature led astray 
And left an outcast in a world of fire, 
Condemned to be the sport of cruel 

fiends, 
Sleepless, unpitying, masters of the skill 
To wring the maddest ecstasies of pain 
From worn-out souls that only ask td 

die, — 
Would it not long to leave the bliss of 

Heaven, — 
Bearing a little water in its hand 
To moisten those poor lips that plead in 

vain 
With Him we call our Father ? Or is all 
So changed in such as taste celestial joy 
They hear unmoved the endless wail of 

woe; 
The daughter in the same dear tones 

that hushed 
Her cradled slumbers ; she who once 

had held 
A babe upon her bosom from its voice 
Hoarse with its cry of anguish, yet the 

same? 

No ! not in ages when the Dreadful 

Bird 
Stamped his huge footprints, and the 

Feanful Beast 
Strode with the flesh about those fossil 

bones 
We build to mimic life with pygmy 

hands, — 
Not in those earliest days when men 

ran wild 
And gashed each other with their knives 

of stone, 
When their low foreheads bulged in 

ridgy brows 
And their flat hands were callous in the 

palm 
With walking in the fashion of their 

sires, 



204 POEMS FKOM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 



Grope as tliey might to find a cruel god 
To work their will on such as human 

wrath 
Had wrought its worst to torture, and 

had left 
With rage unsated, white and stark and 

cold, 
Could hate have shaped a demon more 

malign 
Than him the dead men mummied in 

their creed 
And taught their trembling children to 

adore ! 
Made in his image ! Sweet and gra- 
cious souls 
Dear to my heart by nature's fondest 

names, 
Is not your memory still the precious 

mould 
That lends its form to Him who hears 

my prayer ? 
Thus only I behold him, like to them, 
Long-suffering, gentle, ever slow to 

wrath, 
If wrath it be that only wounds to heal, 
Ready to meet the wanderer ere he reach 
The door he seeks, forgetful of his sin, 
Longing to clasp him in a father's arms, 
And seal his pardon with a pitying tear ! 

Four gospels tell their story to man- 
kind, 
And none so full of soft, caressing words 
That bring the Maid of Bethlehem and 

her Babe 
Before our tear-dimmed eyes, as his who 

learned 
In the meek service of his gracious art 
The tones which like the medicinal balms 
That calm the sufferer's anguish, soothe 

our souls. 
— that the loving woman, she who sat 
So long a listener at her Master's feet, 
Had left us Mary's Gospel, — all she 
heard 



Too sweet, too subtle for the ear of man ! 
Mark how the tender-hearted mothers 

read 
The messages of love between the lines 
Of the same page that loads the bitter 

tongue 
Of him who deals in terror as his trade 
With threatening words of wrath that 

scorch like flame ! 
They tell of angels whispering round 

the bed 
Of the sweet infant smiling in its dream, 
Of lambs enfolded in the Shepherd's 

arms, 
Of Him who blessed the children ; of 

the land 
Where crystal rivers feed unfading 

flowers, 
Of cities golden-paved with streets of 

pearl, 
Of the white robes the winged creatures 

wear, 
The crowns and harps from whose melo- 
dious strings 
One long, sweet anthem flows forever- 
more ! 
— We too had human mothers, even 

as Thou, 
Whom we have learned to worship as 

remote 
From mortal kindred, wast a cradled 

babe. 
The milk of woman filled our branching 

veins, 
She lulled us with her tender nursery- 
song, 
And folded round us her untiring arms, 
While the first unremembered twilight 

year 
Shaped us to conscious being ; still we 

feel 
Her pulses in our own, — too faintly 

feel ; 
Would that the heart of woman warmed 

our creeds I 



EPILOGUE TO THE BREAKFAST-TABLE SERIES. 



.205 



Not from the sad-eyed hermit's lonely- 
cell, 
Not from the conclave where the holy 

men 
Glare on each other, as with angry eyes 
They battle for God's glory and their 

own, 
Till, sick of wordy strife, a show of 

hands 
Fixes the faith of ages yet unborn, — 
Ah, not from these the listening soul 

can hear 
The Father's voice that speaks itself 

divine ! 
Love must be still our Master ; till we 

learn 
What he can teach us of a woman's 

heart, 
We know not His, whose love embraces 

aU. 



EPILOGUE TO THE BREAKFAST-TABLE 
SERIES. 

AUTOCRAT — PROFESSOR — POET. 

AT A BOOKSTORE. 

Anno Domini 1979. 

A crazy bookcase, placed before 
A low-price dealer's open door ; 
Therein arrayed in broken rows 
A ragged crew of rhyme and prose, 
The homeless vagrants, waifs and strays 
Whose low estate this line betrays 
(Set forth the lesser birds to lime) 
YOUR CHOICE AMONG THESE BOOKS, 1 
DIME! 

Ho ! dealer ; for its motto's sake 

This scarecrow from the shelf I take ; 

Three starveling volumes bound in one, 

Its covers warping in the sun. 

Methinks it hath a musty smell, 

I like its flavor none too well, 

But Yorick's brain was far from dull, 



Though Hamlet pah ! 'd, and dropped 
his skull. 

Why, here comes rain ! The sky grows 

dark, — 
Was that the roll of thunder ? Hark ! 
The shop affords a safe retreat, 
A chair extends its welcome seat, 
The tradesman has a civil look 
(I 've paid, impromptu, for my book), 
The clouds portend a sudden shower, — 
I '11 read my purchase for an hour. 
* » * 

What have I rescued from the shelf ? 
A Bos well, writing out himself ! 
For though he changes dress and name, 
The man beneath is still the same, 
Laughing or sad, by fits and starts, 
One actor in a dozen parts, 
And whatsoe'er the mask may be, 
The voice assures us, This is he. 

I say not this to cry him down ; 
I find my Shakespeare in his clown, 
His rogues the selfsame parent own ; 
Nay ! Satan talks in Milton's tone ! 
Where'er the ocean inlet strays, 
The salt sea wave its source betrays, 
Where'er the queen of summer blows, 
She tells the zephyr, " I 'm the rose ! " 

And his is not the playwright's page ; 
His table does not ape the stage •, 
What matter if the figures seen 
Are only shadows on a screen, 
He finds in them his lurking thought, 
And on their lips the words he sought, 
Like one who sits before the keys 
And plays a tune himself to please. 

And was he noted in his day ? 

Read, flattered, honored ? Who shall 

say? 
Poor wreck of time the wave has cast 
To find a peaceful shore at last, 



206 



POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE, 



Once glorying in thy gilded name 
And freighted deep with hopes of fame, 
Thy leaf is moistened with a tear, 
The first for many a long, long year ! 

For be it more or less of art 

That veils the lowliest human heart 

Where passion throbs, where friendship 

glows, 
Where pity's tender tribute flows, 
Where love has lit its fragrant fire, 
And sorrow quenched its vain desire, 
For me the altar is divine, 
Its flame, its ashes, — all are mine ! 

And thou, my brother, as I look 
And see thee pictured in thy book, 



Thy years on every page confessed 
In shadows lengthening from the west, 
Thy glance that wanders, as it sought 
Some freshly opening flower of thought, 
Thy hopeful nature, light and free, 
I start to find myself in thee ! 
* * * 

Come, vagrant, outcast, wretch for- 
lorn 
In leather jerkin stained and torn, 
Whose talk has filled my idle hour 
And made me half forget the shower, 
I '11 do at least as much for you, 
Your coat I '11 patch, your gilt renew, 
Read you — perhaps — some other time. 
Not bad, my bargain ! Price one dime ! 




POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29. 



POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29. 



1851 - 1877. 



BILL AND JOE. 

Come, dear old comrade, you and I 
Will steal an hour from days gone by, 
The shining days when life was new, 
And all was bright with morning dew, 
The lusty days of long ago, 
"When you were Bill and I was Joe. 

Your name may flaunt a titled trail 
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail, 
And mine as brief appendix wear 
As Tarn O'Shanter's luckless mare ; 
To-day, old friend, remember still 
That I am Joe and you are Bill. 

You've won the great world's envied 

prize, 
And grand you look in people's eyes, 
With HON. and L L. D. 
In big brave letters, fair to see, — 
Your fist, old fellow ! off they go ! — 
How are you, Bill ? How are you, Joe ? 

You 've worn the judge's ermined robe ; 
You 've taught your name to half the 

globe ; 
You've sung mankind a deathless strain ; 
You 've made the dead past live again : 
The world may call you what it will, 
But you and I are Joe and Bill. 

The chaffing young folks stare and say 
" See those old buffers, bent and gray, — 



They talk like fellows in their teens ! 
Mad, poor old boys ! That 's what it 

means," — 
And shake their heads ; they little know 
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe I — 

How Bill forgets his hour of pride, 
While Joe sits smiling at his side ; 
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, 
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes, — 
Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill 
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill. 

Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame ? 
A fitful tongue of leaping flame ; 
A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust, 
That lifts a pinch of mortal dust ; 
A few swift years, and who can show 
Which dust was Bill and which was 
Joe? 

The weary idol takes his stand, 
Holds out his bruised and aching hand, 
While gaping thousands come and go, — ■ 
How vain it seems, this empty show ! 
Till all at once his pulses thrill ; — 
'T is poor old Joe's "God bless you, 
BUI ! " 

And shall we breathe in happier spheres 
The names that pleased our mortal ears ; 
In some sweet lull of harp and song 
For earth-born spirits none too long, 



208 



POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29. 



Just whispering of the world below 
Where this was Bill, and that was Joe ? 

No matter ; while our home is here 
No sounding name is half so dear ; 
"When fades at length our lingering day, 
Who cares what pompous tombstones 

say? 
Read on the hearts that love us still, 
Hie jacet Joe. Hie jacet Bill. 



1851. 

A SONG OF "TWENTY-NINE." 

The summer dawn is breaking 
On Auburn's tangled bowers, 
The golden light is waking 
On Harvard's ancient towers ; 
The sun is in the sky 
That must see us do or die, 
Ere it shine on the line 
Of the Class of '29. 

At last the day is ended, 

The tutor screws no more, 
By doubt and fear attended 
Each hovers round the door, 
Till the good old Prseses cries, 
While the tears stand in his eyes, 
" You have passed, and are classed 
With the Boys of '29." 

Not long are they in making 
The college halls their own, 
Instead of standing shaking, 
Too bashful to be known ; 

But they kick the Seniors' shins 
Ere the second week begins, 
When they stray in the way 
Of the Boys of '29. 

If a jolly set is trolling 

The last Der Freischutz airs, 

Or a " cannon bullet" rolling 
Comes bouncing down the stairs, 



The tutors looking out, 
Sigh, "Alas ! there is no doubt, 
'T is the noise of the Boys 
Of the Class of '29." 

Four happy years together, 

By storm and sunshine tried, 
In changing wind and weather, 
They rough it side by side, 

Till they hear their Mother cry, 
' ' You are fledged, and you must fly," 
And the bell tolls the knell 
Of the days of '29. 

Since then in peace or trouble, 
Full many a year has rolled, 
And life has counted double 
The days that then we told ; 
Yet we '11 end as we 've begun, 
For though scattered, we are one, 
While each year sees us here, 
Round the board of '29. 

Though fate may throw between us 

The mountains or the sea, 
No time shall ever wean us, 
No distance set us free ; 

But around the yearly board, 
When the flaming pledge is poured, 
It shall claim every name 
On the roll of '29. 

To yonder peaceful ocean 

That glows with sunset fires, 
Shall reach the warm emotion 
This welcome day inspires, 
Beyond the ridges cold 
Where a brother toils for gold, 
Till it shine through the mine 
Round the Boy of '29. 

If one whom fate has broken 

Shall lift a moistened eye, 
We '11 say, before he 's spoken — 

" Old Classmate, don't you cry I 



Bill and Joe 



QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. — AN IMPROMPTU. 



209 



Here, take the purse I hold, 
There 's a tear upon the gold — 
It was mine — it is thine — 
A'n't we Boys of '29 ? " 

As nearer still and nearer 
The fatal stars appear, 
The living shall be dearer 
"With each encircling year, 
Till a few old men shall say 
" We remember 't is the day — 
Let it pass with a glass 
For the Class of '29." 

As one by one is falling 

Beneath the leaves or snows, 
Each memory still recalling 
The broken ring shall close, 
Till the nightwinds softly pass 
O'er the green and growing grass, 
Where it waves on the graves 
Of the Boys of '29 ! 



1852. 

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. 

Where, where are the visions of 
morning, 
Fresh as the dews of our prime ? 
"Gone, like tenants that quit without 
warning, 
Down the back entry of time. 

Where, where are life's lilies and roses, 
Nursed in the golden dawn's smile? 

Dead as the bulrushes round little Moses, 
On the old banks of the Nile. 

Where are the Marys, and Anns, and 
Elizas, 
Loving and lovely of yore ? 
Look in the columns of old Adver- 
tisers, — 
Married and dead by the score. 



Where the gray colts and the ten-year- 
old fillies, 

Saturday's triumph and joy ? 
Gone, like our friend 7ro5as wkvs Achilles, 

Homer's ferocious old boy. 

Die-away dreams of ecstatic emotion, 
Hopes like young eagles at play, 

Vows of unheard-of and endless devotion, 
How ye have faded away ! 

Yet, though the ebbing of Time's mighty 
river 
Leave our young blossoms to die, 
Let him roll smooth in his current for- 
ever, 
Till the last pebble is dry. 

1853. 

AN IMPROMPTU. 

Not premeditated. 

The clock has struck noon ; ere it thrice 
tell the hours 

We shall meet round the table that 
blushes with flowers, 

And I shall blush deeper with shame- 
driven blood 

That I came to the banquet and brought 
not a bud. 

Who cares that his verse is a beggar in 

art 
If you see through its rags the full throb 

of his heart ? 
Who asks if his comrade is battered and 

tanned 
When he feels his warm soul in the clasp 

of his hand ? 

No ! be it an epic, or be it a line, 

The Boys will all love it because it is 

mine ; 
I sung their last song on the morn of 

the day 



210 



POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29. 



That tore from their lives the last blos- 
som of May. 

It is not the sunset that glows in the wine, 
But the smile that beams over it, makes 

it divine ; 
I scatter these drops, and behold, as 

they fall, 
The day-star of memory shines through 

them all ! 

And these are the last ; they are drops 

that I stole 
From a wine-press that crushes the life 

from the soul, 
But they ran through my heart and they 

sprang to my brain 
Till our twentieth sweet summer was 

smiling again ! 

1854. 

THE OLD MAN DREAMS. 

for one hour of youthful joy ! 
Give back my twentieth spring ! 

1 'd rather laugh, a bright-haired boy, 
Than reign, a gray-beard king. 

Off with the spoils of wrinkled age ! 

Away with Learning's crown ! 
Tear out life's "Wisdom-written page, 

And dash its trophies down ! 

One moment let my life-blood stream 
From boyhood's fount of flame ! 

Give me one giddy, reeling dream 
Of life all love and fame ! 



My listening angel heard the prayer, 
And, calmly smiling, said, 

** If I but touch thy silvered hair 
Thy hasty wish hath sped. 

" But is there nothing in thy track, 

To bid thee fondly stay, 
WTiile the swift seasons hurry back 

To find the wished-for day ? " 



"Ah, truest soul of womankind ! 

Without thee what were life ? 
One bliss I cannot leave behind : 

1 11 take — my — precious — wife ! " 

— The angel took a sapphire pen 

And wrote in rainbow dew, 
The man would be a boy again, 

And be a husband too ! 

1 ' And is there nothing yet unsaid, 

Before the change appears ? 
Remember, all their gifts have fled 

"With those dissolving years." 

" "Why yes " ; for memory would recall 

My fond paternal joys ; 
" I could not bear to leave them all — 

I '11 take — my — girl — and — boys. " 

The smiling angel dropped his pen, — 

" "Why this will never do ; 
The man would be a boy again, 

And be a father too ! " 



And so I laughed, — my laughter woke 
The household with its noise, — 

And wrote my dream, when morning 
broke, 
To please the gray-haired boys. 

1855. 

REMEMBER -FORGET. 

And what shall be the song to-night, 

If song there needs must be ? 
If every year that brings us here 

Must steal an hour from me ? 
Say, shall it ring a merry peal, 

Or heave a mourning sigh 
O'er shadows cast, by years long pasty 

On moments flitting by ? 

Nay, take the first unbidden line 

The idle hour may send, 
No studied grace can mend the face 

That smiles as friend on friend j 



OUR INDIAN SUMMER. 



211 



The balsam oozes from the pine, 
The sweetness from the rose, 

And so, unsought, a kindly thought 
Finds language as it flows. 

The years rush by in sounding flight, 

I hear their ceaseless wings ; 
Their songs I hear, some far, some near, 

And thus the burden rings : 
"The morn has fled, the noon has past, 

The sun will soon be set, 
The twilight fade to midnight shade ; 

Remember — and Forget ! " 

Remember all that time has brought — 

The starry hope on high, 
The strength attained, the courage gained, 

The love that cannot die. 
Forget the bitter, brooding thought, — 

The word too harshly said, 
The living blame love hates to name, 

The frailties of the dead ! 

We have been younger, so they say, 

But let the seasons roll, 
He doth not lack an almanac, 

Whose youth is in his soul. 
The snows may clog life's iron track, 

But does the axle tire, 
While bearing swift through bank and 
drift 

The engine's heart of fire ? 

I lift a goblet in my hand ; 

If good old wine it hold, 
An ancient skin to keep it in, 

Is just the thing, we 're told. 
We 're grayer than the dusty flask, — 

We 're older than our wine ; 
Our corks reveal the "white top" seal, 

The stamp of '29. 

Ah, Boys ! we clustered in the dawn, 

To sever in the dark ; 
A merry crew, with loud halloo, 

We climbed our painted bark ; 



We sailed her through the four yearsf 
cruise, 

We '11 sail her to the last, 
Our dear old flag, though but a rag, 

Still flying on her mast. 

So gliding on, each winter's gale 

Shall pipe us all on deck, 
Till, faint and few, the gathering crew 

Creep o'er the parting wreck, 
Her sails and streamers spread aloft 

To fortune's rain or shine, 
Till storm or sun shall all be one, 

And down goes Twenty-nine 1 

1856. 

OUR INDIAN SUMMER. 

You'll believe me, dear boys, 'tis a 
pleasure to rise, 

With a welcome like this in your dar- 
ling old eyes; 

To meet the same smiles and to hear 
the same tone, 

Which have greeted me oft in the years 
that have flown. 

Were I gray as the grayest old rat in 

the wall, 
My locks would turn brown at the sight 

of you all ; 
If my heart were as dry as the shell on 

the sand, 
It would fill like th« goblet I hold in 

my hand. 

There are noontides of autumn when 

summer returns, 
Though the leaves are all garnered and 

sealed in their urns, 
And the bird on his perch that was 

silent so long, 
Believes the sweet sunshine and breaks 

into song, 



212 



POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29. 



We have caged the young birds of our 

beautiful June ; 
Their plumes are still bright and their 

voices in tune ; 
One moment of sunshine from faces like 

these 
And they sing as they sung in the 

green-growing trees. 

The voices of morning! how sweet is 
their thrill 

When the shadows have turned, and 
the evening grows still ! 

The text of our lives may get wiser with 
age, 

But the print was so fair on its twen- 
tieth page! 

Look off from your goblet and up from 

your plate ; 
Come, take the last journal, and glance 

at its date : 
Then think what we fellows should say 

and should do, 
If the 6 were a 9 and the 5 were a 2. 

Ah, no ! for the shapes that would meet 

with us here, 
From the far land of shadows, are ever 

too dear ! 
Though youth flung around us its pride 

and its charms, 
We should see but the comrades we 

clasped in our arms. 

A health to our future — a sigh for our 

past, 
We love, we remember, we hope to the 

last; 
And for all the base lies that the 

almanacs hold, 
While we 've youth in our hearts we can 

never grow old ! 



1858. 

MARE RUBRUM. 

Flash out a stream of blood-red wine, 

For I would drink to other days, 
And brighter shall their memory shine, 

Seen flaming through its crimson 
blaze ! 
The roses die, the summers fade, 

But every ghost of boyhood's dream 
By nature's magic power is laid 

To sleep beneath this blood-red 
stream ! 

It filled the purple grapes that lay, 

And drank the splendors of the sun, 
Where the long summer's cloudless day 

Is mirrored in the broad Garonne ; 
It pictures still the bacchant shapes 

That saw their hoarded sunlight 
shed, — 
The maidens dancing on the grapes, — 

Their milk-white ankles splashed with 
red. 

Beneath these waves of crimson lie, 

In rosy fetters prisoned fast, 
Those flitting shapes that never die, — 

The swift- winged visions of the past. 
Kiss but the crystal's mystic rim 

Each shadow rends its flowery chain, 
Springs in a bubble from its brim 

And walks the chambers of the brain. 

Poor beauty ! Time and fortune's wrong 

No shape nor feature may withstand ; 
Thy wrecks are scattered all along, 

Like emptied sea-shells on the sand ; 
Yet, sprinkled with this blushing rain, 

The dust restores each blooming girl, 
As if the sea-shells moved again 

Their glistening lips of pink and pearl 

Here lies the home of school- boy life, 
With creaking stair and wind-swept 
hall, 



THE BOYS. 



213 



And, scarred by many a truant knife, 
Our old initials on the wall ; 

Here rest, their keen vibrations mute, 
The shout of voices known so well, 

The ringing laugh, the wailing flute, 
The chiding of the sharp-tongued bell. 

Here, clad in burning robes, are laid 

Life's blossomed joys, untimely shed, 
And here those cherished forms have 
strayed 

We miss awhile, and call them dead. 
What wizard fills the wondrous glass ? 

What soil the enchanted clusters 
grew? 
That buried passions wake and pass 

In beaded drops of fiery dew ? 

Nay ! take the cup of blood-red wine, — 

Our hearts can boast a warmer glow, 
Filled from a vintage more divine, 

Calmed, but not chilled, by winter's 
snow! 
To-night the palest wave we sip 

Rich as the priceless draught shall be 
That wet the bride of Cana's lip, — 

The wedding wine of Galilee ! 



1859. 

THE BOYS. 

Has there any old fellow got mixed 
with the boys ? 

If there has, take him out, without mak- 
ing a noise. 

Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Cat- 
alogue's spite ! 

Old time is a liar ! We 're twenty to- 
night ! 

We 're twenty 1 We 're twenty ! Who 

says we are more ? 
He's tipsy, — young jackanapes ! — show 

him the door I 



" Gray temples at twenty ? " — Yes ! 

white if we please ; 
Where the snow-flakes fall thickest 

there 's nothing can freeze ! 

Was it snowing I spoke of ? Excuse the 

mistake ! 
Look close, — you will see not a sign of 

a flake ! 
We want some new garlands for those 

we have shed, — 
And these are white roses in place of the 

red. 

We 've a trick, we young fellows, you 

may have been told, 
Of talking (in public) as if we were 

old: — 
That boy we call " Doctor," and this we 

call "Judge" ; 
It 's a neat little fiction, — of course it 's 

all fudge. 

That fellow 's the " Speaker," — the one 

on the right ; 
"Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are 

you to-night ? 
That 's our "Member of Congress," we 

say when we chaff ; 
There's the "Reverend" What's his 

name ? — don't make me laugh. 

That boy with the grave mathematical 

look 
Made believe he had written a wonderful 

book, 
And the Royal Society thought it was 

true I 
So they chose him right in ; a good joke 

it was, too ! 

There 's a boy, we pretend, with a three- 
decker brain, 

That could harness a team with a logical 
chain ; 



214 



POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29. 



When he spoke for our manhood in syl- 
labled fire, 

"We called him " The Justice," but now 
he's "The Squire." 

And there 's a nice youngster of excel- 
lent pith, — 

Fate tried to conceal him by naming 
him Smith ; 

But he shouted a song for the brave and 
the free, — 

Just read on his medal, " My country," 
"of thee!" 

You hear that boy laughing? — You 

think he 's all fun ; 
But the angels laugh, too, at the good 

he has done ; 
The children laugh loud as they troop to 

his call, 
And the poor man that knows him laughs 

loudest of all ! 

Yes, we 're boys, — always playing with 
tongue or with pen, — 

And I sometimes have asked, — Shall we 
ever be men ? 

Shall we always be youthful, and laugh- 
ing, and gay, 

Till the last dear companion drops smil- 
ing away ? 

Then here 's to our boyhood, its gold and 
its gray ! 

The stars of its winter, the dews of its 
May ! 

And when we have done with our life- 
lasting toys, 

Dear Father, take care of thy children, 
the Boys ! 

1860. 

LINES. 

I 'm ashamed, — that 's the fact, — it 's 
a pitiful case, — 



Won't any kind classmate get up in my 
place ? 

Just remember how often I 've risen be- 
fore, — 

I blush as I straighten my legs on the 
floor ! 

There are stories, once pleasing, too many 

times told, — 
There are beauties once charming, too 

fearfully old, — 
There are voices we 've heard till we know 

them so well, 
Though they talked for an hour they 'd 

have nothing to tell. 

Yet, Classmates ! Friends ! Brothers ! 

dear blessed old boys ! 
Made one by a lifetime of sorrows and 

joys. 

What lips have such sounds as the poor- 
est of these, 

Though honeyed, like Plato's, by musi- 
cal bees ? 

What voice is so sweet and what greet- 
ing so dear 

As the simple, warm welcome that waits 
for us here ? 

The love of our boyhood still breathes in 
its tone, 

And our hearts throb the answer, "He 's 
one of our own ! " 

Nay ! count not our numbers ; some 

sixty we know, 
But these are above, and those under the 

snow ; 
And thoughts are still mingled wherever 

we meet 
For those we remember with those that 

we greet. 

We have rolled on life's journey, — how 

fast and how far ! 
One round of humanity's many-wheeled 

car, 



A VOICE OF THE LOYAL NORTH. — J. D. R. 



215 



i 



But up-hill and down-hill, through rat- 
tle and rub, 

Old, true Twenty-niners ! we 've stuck 
to our hub ! 

While a brain lives to think, or a bosom 

to feel, 
We will cling to it still like the spokes 

of a wheel ! 
And age, as it chills us, shall fasten the 

tire 
That youth fitted round in his circle of 

fire ! 

1861. 

(JANUARY 3d.) 
A VOICE OF THE LOYAL NORTH. 

We sing "Our Country's" song to-night 

With saddened voice and eye ; 
Her banner droops in clouded light 

Beneath the wintry sky. 
We '11 pledge her once in golden wine 

Before her stars have set : 
Though dim one reddening orb may 
shine, 

We have a Country yet. 

'T were vain to sigh o'er errors past, 

The fault of sires or sons ; 
Our soldier heard the threatening blast, 

And spiked his useless guns ; 
He saw the star-wreathed ensign fall, 

By mad invaders torn ; 
But saw it from the bastioned wall 

That laughed their rage to scorn ! 

What though their angry cry is flung 

Across the howling wave, — 
They smite the air with idle tongue 

The gathering storm who brave ; 
Enough of speech ! the trumpet rings ; 

Be silent, patient, calm, — 
God help them if the tempest swings 

The pine against the palm ! 



Our toilsome years have made us tame ; 

Our strength has slept unfelt ; 
The furnace-fire is slow to flame 

That bids our ploughshares melt ; 
'T is hard to lose the bread they win 

In spite of Nature's frowns, — 
To drop the iron threads we spin 

That weave our web of towns, 

To see the rusting turbines stand 

Before the emptied flumes, 
To fold the arms that flood the land 

With rivers from their looms, — 
But harder still for those who learn 

The truth forgot so long ; 
When once their slumbering passions 
burn, 

The peaceful are the strong ! 

The Lord have mercy on the weak, 

And calm their frenzied ire, 
And save our brothers ere they shriek, 

" We played with Northern fire ! " 
The eagle hold his mountain height, — 

The tiger pace his den ! 
Give all their country, each his right ! 

God keep us all ! Amen ! 

1862. 

* 

J. D. R. 

The friends that are, 'and friends that 
were, 

What shallow waves divide ! 
I miss the form for many a year 

Still seated at my side. 

I miss him, yet I feel him still 

Amidst our faithful band, 
As if not death itself could chill 

The warmth of friendship's hand. 

His story other lips may tell, — 

For me the veil is drawn ; 
I only know he loved me well, 

He loved me — and is gone f 



216 



POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29. 



1862. 

VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP UNION. 

'T is midnight : through my troubled 
dream 
Loud wails the tempest's cry ; 
Before the gale, with tattered sail, 

A ship goes plunging by. 
What name? Where bound? — The 
rocks around 
Repeat the loud halloo. 

— The good ship Union, Southward 

bound : 
God help her and her crew. ! 

And is the old flag flying still 

That o'er your fathers flew, 
With bands of white and rosy light, 

And field of starry blue ? 

— Ay ! look aloft ! its folds full oft 
Have braved the roaring blast, 

And still shall fly when from the sky 
This black typhoon has past ! 

Speak, pilot of the storm-tost bark ! 
May I thy peril share ? 

— landsman, these are fearful seas 
The brave alone may dare ! 

— Nay, ruler of the rebel deep, 
What matters wind or wave ? 

The rocks that wreck your reeling deck 
Will leave me naught to save ! 

landsman, art thou false or true ? 
What sign hast thou to show ? 

— The crimson stains from loyal veins 
That hold my heart-blood's flow ! 

— Enough ! what more shall honor 
claim ? 

I know the sacred sign ; 
Above thy head our flag shall spread, 

Our ocean path be thine ! 

The bark sails on ; the Pilgrim's Cape 
Lies low along her lee, 



Whose headland crooks its anchor-flukes 

To lock the shore and sea. 
No treason here ! it cost too dear 

To win this barren realm ! 
And true and free the hands must be 

That hold the whaler's helm ! 

Still on ! Manhattan's narrowing bay 

No Rebel cruiser scars ; 
Her waters feel no pirate's keel 

That flaunts the fallen stars ! 

— But watch the light on yonder 

height, — 
Ay, pilot, have a care ! 
Some lingering cloud in mist may shroud 
The capes of Delaware ! 

Say, pilot, what this fort may be, 

Whose sentinels look down 
From moated walls that show the sea 

Their deep embrasures' frown ? 
The Rebel host claims all the coast, 

But these are friends, we know, 
Whose footprints spoil the "sacred soil," 

And this is ? Fort Monroe ! 

The breakers roar, — how bears the 
shore ? 
— The traitorous wreckers' hands 
Have quenched the blaze that poured 
its rays 
Along the Hatteras sands. 

— Ha ! say not so ! I see its glow ! 
Again the shoals display 

The beacon light that shines by night, 
The Union Stars by day ! 

The good ship flies to milder skies, 

The wave more gently flows, 
The softening breeze wafts o'er the seas 

The breath of Beaufort's rose. 
What fold is this the sweet winds kiss, 

Fair-striped and many-starred, 
Whose shadow palls these orphaned 
walls, 

The twins of Beauregard ? 



"CHOOSE YOU THIS DAY WHOM YE WILL SERVE.' 



217 



What ! heard you not Port Royal's doom ? 

How the black war-ships came 
Arid turned the Beaufort roses' bloom 

To redder wreaths of flame ? 
How from Rebellion's broken reed 

We saw his emblem fall, 
As soon his cursed poison-weed 

Shall drop from Sumter's wall ? 

On ! on ! Pulaski's iron hail 

Falls harmless on Tybee ! 
The good ship feels the freshening gales, 

She strikes the open sea ; 
She rounds the point, she threads the 
keys 

That guard the Land of Flowers, 
And rides at last where firm and fast 

Her own Gibraltar towers ! 

The good ship Union's voyage is o'er, 

At anchor safe she swings, 
And loud and clear with cheer on cheer 

Her joyous welcome rings : 
Hurrah ! Hurrah ! it shakes the wave, 

It thunders on the shore, — 

LOne flag, one land, one heart, one hand, 
One Nation, evermore ! 



1863. 

"CHOOSE YOU THIS DAY WHOM YE 
WILL SERVE." 

Yes, tyrants, you hate us, and fear while 
you hate 

The self-ruling, chain-breaking, throne- 
shaking State ! 

The night-birds dread morning, — your 
instinct is true, — 

The day-star of Freedom brings midnight 
for you ! 

Why plead with the deaf for the cause 

of mankind ? 
The owl hoots at noon that the eagle is 

blind! 



We ask not your reasons, — 't were wast- 
ing our time, — 
Our life is a menace, our welfare a crime ! 

We have battles to fight, we have foes to 

subdue, — 
Time waits not for us, and we wait not 

for you ! 
The mower mows on, though the adder 

may writhe 
And the copper-head coil round the blade 

of his scythe ! 

"No sides in this quarrel," your states- 
men may urge, 

Of school-house and wages with slave- 
pen and scourge ! — 

No sides in the quarrel ! proclaim it as 
well 

To the angels that fight with the legions 
of hell ! 

They kneel in God's temple, the North 

and the South, 
With blood on each weapon and prayers 

in each mouth. 
Whose cry shall be answered? Ye 

Heavens, attend 
The lords of the lash as their voices 

ascend ! 

"0 Lord, we are shaped in the image 
of Thee, — 

Smite down the base millions that claim 
to be free, 

And lend Thy strong arm to the soft- 
handed race 

Who eat not their bread in the sweat of 
their face ! " 

So pleads the proud planter. What 

echoes are these ? 
The bay of his bloodhound is borne on 

the breeze, 
And, lost in the shriek of his victim's 

despair, 



218 



POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29. 



His voice dies unheard. — Hear the Pu- 
ritan's prayer ! 

" Lord, that didst smother mankind 

in Thy flood, 
The sun is as sackcloth, the moon is as 

blood, 
The stars fall to earth as untimely are 

cast 
The figs from the fig-tree that shakes in 

the blast ! 

" All nations, all tribes in whose nostrils 
is breath, 

Stand gazing at Sin as she travails with 
Death ! 

Lord, strangle the monster that strug- 
gles to birth, 

Or mock us no more with Thy 'Kingdom 
on Earth ! ' 

" If Ammon and Moab must reign in the 

land 
Thou gavest Thine Israel, fresh from 

Thy hand, 
Call Baal and Ashtaroth out of their 

graves 
To be the new gods for the empire of 

slaves ! " 

Whose God will ye serve, ye rulers 

of men ? 
"Will ye build you new shrines in the 

slave-breeder's den ? 
Or bow with the children of light, as 

they call 
On the Judge of the Earth and the 

Father of All ? 

Choose wisely, choose quickly, for time* 
moves apace, — 

Each day is an age in the life of our race ! 

Lord, lead them in love, ere they hasten 
in fear 

From the fast-rising flood that shall gir- 
dle the sphere ! 



1864. 

* 

F. W. C. 

Fast as the rolling seasons bring 

The hour of fate to those we love, 
Each pearl that leaves the broken string 

Is set in Friendship's crown above. 
As narrower grows the earthly chain, 

The circle widens in the sky ; 
These are our treasures that remain, 

But those are stars that beam on high. 

We miss — 0, how we miss ! — his face, — 

With trembling accents speak his 
name. 
Earth cannot fill his shadowed place 

From all her rolls of pride and fame ; 
Our song has lost the silvery thread 

That carolled through his jocund lips ; 
Our laugh is mute, our smile is fled, 

And all our sunshine in eclipse. 

And what and whence the wondrous 
charm 

That kept his manhood boylike still, — 
That life's hard censors could disarm 

And lead them captive at his will ? 
His heart was shaped of rosier clay, — 

His veins were filled with ruddier 
fire, — 
Time could not chill him, fortune sway, 

Nor toil with all its burdens tire. 

His speech burst throbbing from its 
fount 
And set our colder thoughts aglow, 
As the hot leaping geysers mount 

And falling melt the Iceland snow. 
Some word, perchance, we counted 
rash, — 
Some phrase our calmness might dis« 
claim,* 
Yet 't was the sunset's lightning's flash, 
No angry bolt, but harmless flame. 



THE LAST CHARGE. 



219 



Man judges all, God knoweth each ; 

We read the rule, He sees the law ; 
How oft his laughing children teach 

The truths his prophets never saw ! 
friend, whose wisdom flowered in 
mirth, 

Our hearts are sad, our eyes are 
dim ; 
He gave thy smiles to brighten earth, — 

"We trust thy joyous soul to Him ! 

Alas ! — our weakness Heaven forgive ! 

We murmur, even while Ave trust, 
" How long earth's breathing burdens 
live, 
Whose hearts, before they die, are 
dust ! " 
But thou ! — through grief's untimely 
tears 
We ask with half-reproachful sigh — 
" Couldst thou not watch a few brief 
years 
Till Friendship faltered, ' Thou mayst 
die'?'* 

Who loved our boyish years so well ? 

Who knew so well their pleasant 
tales, 
And all those livelier freaks could tell 

Whose oft-told story never fails ? 
In vain we turn our aching eyes, — 

In vain we stretch our eager hands, — 
Cold in his wintry shroud he lies 

Beneath the dreary drifting sands ! 

Ah, speak not thus ! He lies not there ! 

We see him, hear him as of old ! 
He comes ! he claims his wonted 
chair ; 

His beaming face we still behold ! 
His voice rings clear in all our songs, 

And loud his mirthful accents rise ; 
To us our brother's life belongs, — 

Dear friends, a classmate never dies ! 



1864. 

THE LAST CHARGE. 

Now, men of the North ! will you join 

in the strife 
For country, for freedom, for honor, for 

life? 
The giant grows blind in his fury and 

spite, — 
One blow on his forehead will settle the 

fight ! 

Flash full in his eyes the blue lightning 

of steel, 
And stun him with cannon-bolts, peal 

upon peal ! 
Mount, troopers, and follow your game 

to its lair, 
As the hound tracks the wolf and the 

beagle the hare ! 

Blow, trumpets, your summons, till slug- 
gards awake ! 

Beat, drums, till the roofs of the faint- 
hearted shake ! 

Yet, yet, ere the signet is stamped on 
the scroll, 

Their names may be traced on the blood- 
sprinkled roll ! 

Trust not the false herald that painted 

your shield : 
True honor to-day must be sought on the 

field! 
Her scutcheon shows white with a bkzon 

of red, — 
The life-drops of crimson for liberty 

shed ! 

The hour is at hand, and the moment 

draws nigh ; 
The dog-star of treason grows dim in 

the sky ; 
Shine forth from the battle-cloud, light 

of the morn. 



220 



POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29. 



Call "back the bright hour when the 
Nation was born ! 

The rivers of peace through our valleys 

shall run, 
As the glaciers of tyranny melt in the 

sun ; 
Smite, smite the proud parricide down 

from his throne, — 
His sceptre once broken, the world is 

our own ! 



1865. 

OUR OLDEST FRIEND. 

I give you the health of the oldest 

friend 
That, short of eternity, earth can lend, — 
A friend so faithful and tried and true 
That nothing can wean him from me 

and you. 

When first we screeched in the sudden 

blaze 
Of the daylight's blinding and blasting 

rays, 
And gulped at the gaseous, groggy air, 
This old, old friend stood waiting there. 

And when, with a kind of mortal strife, 
We had gasped and choked into breath- 
ing life, 
He watched by the cradle, day and night, 
And held our hands till we stood upright. 

From gristle and pulp our frames have 

grown 
To stringy muscle and solid bone ; 
While we were changing, he altered not ; 
We might forget, but he never forgot. 

He came with us to the college class, — 
Little cared he for the steward's pass ! 
All the rest must pay their fee, 
But the grim old dead-head entered free. 



He stayed with us while we counted o'er 
Four times each of the seasons four ; 
And with every season, from year to year, 
The dear name Classmate he made more 
dear. 

He never leaves us, — he never will, 
Till our hands are cold and our heart:-: 

are still ; 
On birthdays, and Christmas, and New* 

Year's too, 
He always remembers both me and you. 

Every year this faithful friend 

His little present is sure to send ; 

Every year, wheresoe'er we be, 

He wants a keepsake from you and me. 

How he loves us ! he pats our heads, 
And, lo ! they are gleaming with silver 

threads ; 
And he 's always begging one lock of 

hair, 
Till our shining crowns have nothing to 

wear. 

At length he will tell us, one by one, 
' ' My child, your labor on earth is done ; 
And now you must journey afar to see 
My elder brother, — Eternity !" 

And so, when long, long years have 

passed, 
Some dear old fellow will be the last, — 
Never a boy alive but he 
Of all our goodly company ! 

When he lies down, but not till then, 
Our kind Class- Angel will drop the pen 
That writes in the day-book kept above 
Our lifelong record of faith and love. 

So here 's a health in homely rhyme 
To our oldest classmate, Father Time ! 
May our last survivor live to be 
As bald and as wise and as tough as he ! 



SHERMAN S IN SAVANNAH. — MY ANNUAL. 



221 



1865. 

SHERMAN 'S IN SAVANNAH. 

A HALF-RHYMED IMPROMPTU. 

Like the tribes of Israel, 

Fed on quails and manna, 
Sherman and his glorious band 
Journeyed through the rebel land, 
Fed from Heaven's all-bounteous hand, 

Marching on Savannah ! 

As the moving pillar shone, 

Streamed the starry banner 
All day long in rosy light, 
Flaming splendor all the night, 
Till it swooped in eagle flight 

Down on doomed Savannah ! 

Glory be to God on high ! 

Shout the loud Hosanna ! 
Treason's wilderness is past, 
Canaan's shore is won at last, 
Peal a nation's trumpet-blast, — 

Sherman 's in Savannah ! 

Soon shall Richmond's tough old hide 

Find a tough old tanner ! 
Soon from every rebel wall 
Shall the rag of treason fall, 
Till our banner flaps o'er all 

As it crowns Savannah ! 



1866. 

MY ANNUAL. 

How long will this harp which you once 
loved to hear 

Cheat your lips of a smile or your eyes 
of a tear? 

How long stir the echoes it wakened of 
old, 

While its strings were unbroken, untar- 
nished its gold ? 



Dear friends of my boyhood, my words 

do you wrong ; 
The heart, the heart onty, shall throb 

m my song ; 
It reads the kind answer that looks from 

your eyes, — 
"We will bid our old harper play on 

till he dies." 

Though Youth, the fair angel that 

looked o'er the strings, 
Has lost the bright glory that gleamed 

on his wings, 
Though the freshness of morning has 

passed from its tone, 
It is still the old harp that was always 

your own. 

I claim not its music, — each note it 

affords 
I strike from your heart-strings, that 

lend me its chords; 
I know you will listen and love to the 

last, 
For it trembles and thrills with the 

voice of your past. 

Ah, brothers ! dear brothers ! the harp 
that I hold 

No craftsman could string and no artisan 
mould ; 

He shaped it, He strung it, who fash- 
ioned the lyres 

That ring with the hymns of the sera- 
phim choirs. 

Not mine are the visions of beauty it 

brings, 
Not mine the faint fragrance around it 

that clings ; 
Those shapes are the phantoms of years 

that are fled, 
Those sweets breathe from roses you? 

summers have shed. 



222 



POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29. 



Each hour of the past lends its tribute 
to this, 

Till it blooms like a bower in the Gar- 
den of Bliss ; 

The thorn and the thistle may grow as 
they will, 

Where Friendship unfolds there is Para- 
dise still. 

The bird wanders careless while summer 

is green, 
The leaf-hidden cradle that rocked him 

unseen ; 
"When Autumn's rude lingers the woods 

hare undressed, 
The boughs may look bare, but they 

show him his nest. 

Too precious these moments ! the lustre 

they fling 
Is the light of our year, is the gem of 

its ring, 
So brimming with sunshine, we almost 

forget 
The rays it has lost, and its border of jet. 

While round us the many-hued halo is 

shed, 
How dear are the living, how near are 

the dead ! 
One circle, scarce broken, these waiting 

below, 
Those walking the shores where the 

asphodels blow! 

Not life shall enlarge it nor death shall 

divide, — 
No brother new-born finds his place at 

my side ; 
No titles shall freeze us, no grandeurs 

infest, 
His Honor, His Worship, are boys like 

the rest. 

Some won the world's homage, their 
names we hold dear, — 



But Friendship, not Fame, is the coun* 

tersign here; 
Make room by the conqueror crowned 

in the strife 
For the comrade that limps from the 

battle of life ! 

What tongue talks of battle ? Too long 

we have heard 
In sorrow, in anguish, that terrible word; 
It reddened the sunshine, it crimsoned 

the wave, 
It sprinkled our doors with the blood 

of our brave. 

Peace, Peace comes at last, with her 

garland of white; 
Peace broods in all hearts as we gather 

to-night ; 
The blazon of Union spreads full in the 

sun; 
We echo its words, — We are one ! We 

are one ! 

1867. 

ALL HERE. 

It is not what we say or sing, 

That keeps our charm so long un- 
broken, 
Though every lightest leaf we bring 

May touch the heart as friendship's 
token ; 
Not what we sing or what we say 

Can make us dearer to each other ; 
We love the singer and his lay, 

But love as well the silent brother. 

Yet bring whate'er your garden grows, 
Thrice welcome to our smiles and 
praises ; 

Thanks for the myrtle and the rose, 
Thanks for the marigolds and daisies j 

One flower erelong we all shall claim, 
Alas ! unloved of Amaryllis — 



ONCE MORE. 



223 



Nature's last blossom — need I name 
The wreath of threescore's silver lilies ? 

How many, brothers, meet to-night 

Around our boyhood's covered embers? 
Go read the treasured names aright 

The old triennial list remembers : 
Though twenty wear the starry sign 

That tells a life has broke its tether, 
The fifty-eight of 'twenty-nine — 

God bless The Boys ! — are all to- 
gether ! 

These come with joyous look and word, 

With friendly grasp and cheerful 
greeting, — 
Those smile unseen, and move unheard, 

The angel guests of every meeting ; 
They cast no shadow in the flame 

That flushes from the gilded lustre, 
But count us — we are still the same ; 

One earthly band, one heavenly clus- 
ter ! 

Love dies not when he bows his head 

To pass beyond the narrow portals, — 
The light these glowing moments shed 
"Wakes from their sleep our lost im- 
mortals ; 
They come as in their joyous prime, 
Before their morning days were num- 
bered, — 
Death stays the envious hand of Time, — 
The eyes have not grown dim that 
slumbered ! 

The paths that loving souls have trod 
Arch o'er the dust where worldlings 
grovel 
High as the zenith o'er the sod, — 

The cross above the Sexton's shovel ! 
We rise beyond the realms of day ; 
They seem to stoop from spheres of 
glory 



With us one happy hour to stray, 
While youth comes back in song and 
story. 

Ah ! ours is friendship true as steel 
That war has tried in edge and tem- 
per; 
It writes upon its sacred seal 

The priest's ubique — omnes — sum* 
per t 
It lends the sky a fairer sun 
That cheers our lives with rays as 
steady 
As if our footsteps had begun 

To print the golden streets already ! 

The tangling years have clinched its 
knot 

Too fast for mortal strength to sunder ; 
The lightning bolts of noon are shot ; 

No fear of evening's idle thunder ! 
Too late ! too late ! — no graceless hand 

Shall stretch its cords in vain endeavor 
To rive the close encircling band 

That made and keeps us one forever ! 

So when upon the fated scroll 

The falling stars have all descended, 
And, blotted from the breathing roll, 

Our little page of life is ended, 
We ask but one memorial line 

Traced on thy tablet, Gracious Mother: 
" My children. Boys of '29. 

In pace. How they loved each other ! " 



1868. 

ONCE MORE. 

" Will I come ? " That is pleasant ! I 

beg to inquire 
If the gun that I carry has ever missed 

fire? 
And which was the muster-roll — men* 

tion but one — 



224 



POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29. 



That missed your old comrade who car- 
ries the gun ? 

You see me as always, my hand on the 

lock, 
The cap on the nipple, the hammer full 

cock; 
It is rusty, some tell me ; I heed not 

the scoff ; 
It is battered and bruised, but it always 

goes off ! 

— "Is it loaded?" I '11 bet you! What 

does n't it hold ? 

Rammed full to the muzzle with memo- 
ries untold ; 

"Why, it scares me to fire, lest the pieces 
should fly 

Like the cannons that burst on the 
Fourth of July ! 

One charge is a remnant of College-day 

dreams 
(Its wadding is made of forensics and 

themes) ; 
Ah, visions of fame ! what a flash in the 

pan 
As the trigger was pulled by each clever 

young man ! 

And love ! Bless my stars, what a car- 
tridge is there ! 

With a wadding of rose-leaves and rib- 
bons and hair, — 

All crammed in one verse to go off at a 
shot! 

— Were there ever such sweethearts ? 

Of course there were not ! 

And next, — what a load ! it will split 
the old gun, — 

Three fingers, — four fingers, — five fin- 
gers of fun ! 

Come tell me, gray sages, for mischief 
and noise 

Was there ever a lot like us fellows, 
"The Boys"! 



Bump ! bump ! down the staircase the 

cannon-ball goes, — 
Aha, old Professor ! Look out for your 

toes ! 
Don't think, my poor Tutor, to sleep in 

your bed, — 
Two ' ' Boys " — 'twenty-niners — room 

over your head ! 

Remember the nights when the tar-barrel 
blazed ! 

From red " Massachusetts " the war-cry 
was raised ; 

And "Hollis" and "Stoughton" re- 
echoed the call ; 

TillP poked his head out of Hol- 

worthy Hall ! 

Old P , as we called him, — at fifty 

or so, — 
Not exactly a bud, but not quite in full 

blow ; 
In ripening manhood, suppose we should 

say, 
Just nearing his prime, as we boys are 

to-day ! 

0, say, can you look through the vista 
of age 

To the time when old Morse drove the 
regular stage? 

When Lyon told tales of the long- van- 
ished years, 

And Lenox crept round with the rings 
in his ears ? 

And dost thou, my brother, remember 
indeed 

The days of our dealings with Willard 
and Read ? 

When "Dolly" was kicking and run- 
ning away, 

And punch came up smoking on Fille« 
brown's tray ? 

But where are the Tutors, my brother, 
Otell! — 



THE OLD CRUISER. 



225 



And where the Professors, remembered 

so well ? 
The sturdy old Grecian of Holworthy 

Hall, 
And Latin, and Logic, and Hebrew, 

and all ? 

— " They are dead, the old fellows" (we 

called them so then, 
Though we since have found out they 
were lusty young men). 

— They are dead, do you tell me ? — but 

how do you know ? 
You 've filled once too often. I doubt if 
it 's so. 

I 'm thinking. I 'm thinking. Is this 

'sixty-eight ? 
It 's not quite so clear. It admits of 

debate. 
I may have been dreaming. I rather 

incline 
To think — yes, I 'm certain — it is 

'twenty-nine ! 

" By Zhorzhe ! " — as friend Sales is ac- 
customed to cry, — 

You tell me they 're dead, but I know 
it 's a lie ! 

Is Jackson not President ? — What was 
't you said ? 

It can't be ; you 're joking ; what, — all 
of 'em dead ? 

Jim, — Harry, — Fred, — Isaac, — all 

gone from our side ? 
They could n't have left us, — no, not if 

they tried. 

— Look, — there 's our old Prseses, — 

he can't find his text ; 

— See, — P rubs his leg, as he growls 

out, "The next/" 

I told you 't was nonsense. Joe, give 
us a song ! 



Go harness up "Dolly," and fetch her 

along ! — 
Dead ! Dead ! You false graybeard, I 

swear they are not ! 
Hurrah for Old Hickory ! — 0, I forgot ! 

"Well, one we have with us (how could 

he contrive 
To deal with us youngsters and still to 

survive ?) 
Who wore for our guidance authority's 

robe, — 
~No wonder he took to the study of Job ! 

— And now as my load was uncommonly 

large, 
Let me taper it off with a classical charge , 
When that has gone off, I shall drop my 

old gun — 
And then stand at ease, for my service 

is done. 

Bibamus ad Classem vocatam " The 

Boys" 
Et eorum Tutor eni cui nomen est 

" Noyes" ; 
Etfioreant, valcant, vigeant tarn, 
Non Peircius ipse enumeret quam / 

1869. 

THE OLD CRUISER. 

Here 's the old cruiser, 'Twenty-nine, 
Forty times she 's crossed the line ; 
Same old masts and sails and crew, 
Tight and tough and as good as new. 

Into the harbor she bravely steers 
Just as she 's done for these forty 

years, — 
Over her anchor goes, splash and clang t 
Down her sails drop, rattle and bang ! 

Comes a vessel out of the dock 
Fresh and spry as a fighting-cock, 



226 



POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29. 



Feathered with sails and spurred with 

steam, 
Heading out of the classic stream. 

Crew of a hundred all aboard, 
Every man as fine as a lord. 
Gay they look and proud they feel, 
Bowling along on even keel. 

On they float with wind and tide, — 
Gain at last the old ship's side ; 
Every man looks down in turn, — 
Reads the name that 's on her stern. 

"Twenty-nine ! — Diable you say ! 
That was in Skipper Kirkland's day ! 
What was the Flying Dutchman's name ? 
This old rover must be the same. 

" Ho ! you Boatswain that walks the 

deck, 
How does it happen you 're not a wreck ? 
One and another have come to grief, 
How have you dodged by rock and reef?" 

— Boatswain, lifting one knowing lid, 
Hitches his breeches and shifts his quid : 
"Hey? What is it? Who 's come to 

grief ? 
Louder, young swab, I 'm a little deaf." 

" I say, old fellow, what keeps your boat 
With all you jolly old boys afloat, 
When scores of vessels as good as she 
Have swallowed the salt of the bitter 

sea? 

" Many a crew from many a craft 
Goes drifting by on a broken raft 
Pieced from a vessel that clove the brine 
Taller and prouder than 'Twenty-nine. 

" Some capsized in an angry breeze, 
Some were lost in the narrow seas, 
Some on snags and some on sands 
Struck and perished and lost their hands. 



" Tell us young ones, you gray old man, 
What is your secret, if you can. 
We have a ship as good as you, 
Show us how to keep our crew." 

So in his ear the youngster cries ; 
Then the gray Boatswain straight re« 

plies : — 
"AT your crew be sure you know, — 
Never let one of your shipmates go. 

" If he leaves you, change your tack, 
Follow him close and fetch him back ; 
When you 've hauled him in at last, 
Grapple his flipper and hold him fast. 

" If you 've wronged him, speak him 

fair, 
Say you 're sorry and make it square ; 
If he's wronged you, wink so tight 
None of you see what 's plain in sight. 

"When the world goes hard and wrong, 
Lend a hand to help him along ; 
When his stockings have holes to darn, 
Don't you grudge him your ball of yarn. 

" Once in a twelvemonth, come what 

may, 
Anchor your ship in a quiet bay r 
Call all hands and read the log, 
And give 'em a taste of grub and pr^g. 

" Stick to each other through thick and 

thin ; 
All the closer as age leaks in ; 
Squalls will blow and clouds will frown 
But stay by your ship till you all go 

down ! " 

ADDED FOR THE ALUMNI MEETING, 
JUNE 29, 1869. 

So the gray Boatswain of 'Twenty-nine 
Piped to "The Boys" as they crossed 
the line j 



HYMN FOR THE CLASS-MEETING. 



EVEN-SONG. 



227 



Round the cabin sat thirty guests, 
Babes of the nurse with a thousand 
breasts. 

There were the judges, grave and grand, 
Flanked by the priests on either hand ; 
There was the lord of wealth untold, 
And the dear good fellow in broadcloth 
old. 

Thirty men, from twenty towns, 

Sires and grandsires with silvered 

crowns, — 
Thirty school -boys all in a row, — 
Bens and Georges and Bill and Joe. 

In thirty goblets the wine was poured, 
But threescore gathered around the 

board, — 
For lo ! at the side of every chair 
A shadow hovered — we all were there ! 



1869. 

HYMN FOR THE CLASS- MEETING. 

Thou Gracious Power, whose mere} lends 
The light of home, the smile of friends, 
Our gathered flock thine arms infold 
As in the peaceful days of old. 

"Wilt thou not hear us while we raise, 
In sweet accord of solemn praise, 
The voices that have mingled long 
In joyous flow of mirth and song ? 

For all the blessings life has brought, 
For all its sorrowing hours have taught, 
For all we mourn, for all we keep, 
The hands we clasp, the loved that 
sleep ; 

The noontide sunshine of the past, 
These brief, bright moments fading fast, 
The stars that gild our darkening years, 
The twilight ray from holier spheres ; 



"We thank thee, Father ! let thy grace 
Our narrowing circle still embrace, 
Thy mercy shed its heavenly store, 
Thy peace be with us evermore 1 

1870. 

EVEN-SONG. 

It may be, yes, it must be, Time that 
brings 
An end to mortal things, 
That sends the beggar Winter in the 
train 
Of Autumn's burdened wain, — 
Time, that is heir of all our earthly 
state, 
And knoweth well to wait 
Till sea hath turned to shore and shore 
to sea, 
If so it need must be, 
Ere he make good his claim and call his 
own 
Old empires overthrown, — 
Time, who can find no heavenly orb too 
large 
To hold its fee in charge, 
Nor any motes that fill its beam so 
small, 
But he shall care for all, — 
It may be, must be, — yes, he soon 
shall tire 
This hand that holds the lyre. 

Then ye who listened in that earlier day 

"When to my careless lay 
I matched its chords and stole their first- 
born thrill, 

"With untaught rudest skill 
Vexing a treble from the slender strings 

Thin as the locust sings 
When the shrill-crying child of sum- 
mer's heat 

Pipes from its leafy seat, 
The dim pavilion of embowering green 



228 



POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29. 



Beneath whose shadowy screen 
The small sopranist tries his single note 

Against the song-bird's throat, 
And all the echoes listen, but in vain ; 

They hear no answering strain, — 
Then ye who listened in that earlier day 

Shall sadly turn away, 

Saying, "The fire burns low, the hearth 
is cold 
That warmed our blood of old ; 
Cover its embers and its half - burnt 
brands, 
And let us stretch our hands 
Over a brighter and fresh-kindled flame ; 

Lo, this is not the same, 
The joyous singer of our morning time, 

Flushed high with lusty rhyme ! 
Speak kindly, for he bears a human 
heart, 
But whisper him apart, — 
Tell him the woods their autumn robes 
have shed 
And all their birds have fled, 
And shouting winds unbuild the naked 
nests 
They warmed with patient breasts ; 
Tell him the sky is dark, the summer 
o'er, 
And bid him sing no more ! 

Ah, welladay ! if words so cruel-kind 

A listening ear might find ! 
But who that hears the music in his soul 

Of rhythmic waves that roll 
Crested with gleams of fire, and as they 
flow 
Stir all the deeps below 
Till the great pearls no calm might ever 
reach 
Leap glistening on the beach, — 
Who that has known the passion and 
the pain, 
The rush through heart and brain, 
The joy so like a pang his hand is pressed 



Hard on his throbbing breast, 
"When thou, whose smile is life and bliss 
and fame 
Hast set his pulse aflame, 
Muse of the lyre ! can say farewell to 
thee? 
Alas ! and must it be ? 

In many a clime, in many a stately 
tongue, 
The mighty bards have sung ; 
To these the immemorial thrones belong 

And purple robes of song ; 
Yet the slight minstrel loves the slender 
tone 
His lips may call his own, 
And finds the measure of the verse more 
sweet 
Timed by his pulse's beat, 
Than all the hymnings of the laurelled 
throng. 
Say not I do him wrong, 
For Nature spoils her warblers, — them 
she feeds 
In lotus-growing meads 
And pours them subtle draughts from 
haunted streams 
That fill their souls with dreams. 

Full well I know the gracious mother's 
wiles 
And dear delusive smiles ! 
No callow fledgling of her singing brood 

But tastes that witching food, 
And hearing overhead the eagle's wing, 

And how the thrushes sing, 
Vents his exiguous chirp, and from his 
nest 
Flaps forth — we know the rest. 
I own the weakness of the tuneful 
kind, — 
Are not all harpers blind ? 
I sang too early, must I sing too late ? 

The lengthening shadows wait 
The first pale stars of twilight, — yet 
how sweet 



THE SMILING LISTENER. 



229 



The flattering whisper's cheat, — 
^Thou hast the fire no evening chill 
can tame, 
Whose coals outlast its flame ! " 

Farewell, ye carols of the laughing morn, 

Of earliest sunshine born ! 
The sower flings the seed and looks not 
back 
Along his furrowed track ; 
The reaper leaves the stalks for other 
hands 
To gird with circling bands ; 
The wind, eaith's careless servant, truant- 
born, 
Blows clean the beaten corn 
And quits the thresher's floor, and goes 
his way 
To sport with ocean's spray ; 
The headlong-stumbling rivulet scram- 
bling down 
To wash the sea-girt town, 
Still babbling of the green and billowy 
waste 
Whose salt he longs to taste, 
Ere his warm wave its chilling clasp may 
feel 
Has twirled the miller's wheel. 

The song has done its task that makes 
us bold 
With secrets else untold, — 
And mine has run its errand ; through 
the dews 
I tracked the flying Muse ; 
The daughter of the morning touched my 
lips 
With roseate finger-tips ; 
Whether I would or would not, I must 
sing 
With the new choirs of spring ; 
Now, as I watch the fading autumn day 

And trill my softened lay, 
I think of all that listened, and of one 
^or whom a brighter sun 



Dawned at high summer's noon. Ah, 
comrades dear, 
Are not all gathered here ? 
Our hearts have answered. — Yes i they 
hear our call : 
All gathered here ! all ! all ! 

1871. 

THE SMILING LISTENER. 

Pkecisely. I see it. You all want to 

say 
That a tear is too sad and a laugh is too 

gay; 

You could stand a faint smile, you could 

manage a sigh, 
But you value your ribs, and you don't 

want to cry. 

And why at our feast of the clasping of 
hands 

Need we turn on the stream of our lach- 
rymal glands ? 

Though we see the white breakers of age 
on our bow, 

Let us take a good pull in the jolly-boat 
now ! 

It 's hard if a fellow cannot feel content 
When a banquet like this does n't cost 

him a cent, 
When his goblet and plate he may empty 

at will, 
And our kind Class Committee will settle 

the bill. 

And here 's your old friend the identical 

bard 
Who has rhymed and recited you verse 

by the yard 
Since the days of the empire of Andrew 

the First 
Till you 're full to the brim and feel ready 

to burst 



230 



POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29. 



It 's awful to think of, — how year after 

year 
"With his piece in his pocket he waits for 

you here ; 
No matter who 's missing, there always 

is one 
To lug out his manuscript, sure as a gun. 

" Why won't he stop writing ? " Hu- 
manity cries : 

The answer is briefly, " He can't if he 
tries ; 

He has played with his foolish old feather 
so long, 

That the goose-quill in spite of him 
cackles in song." 

You have watched him with patience 

from morning to dusk 
Since the tassel was bright o'er the green 

of the husk, 
And now — it 's too bad — it 's a pitiful 

job — 
He has shelled the ripe ear till he 's come 

to the cob. 

I see one face beaming — it listens so 

well 
There must be some music yet left in 

my shell — 
The wine of my soul is not thick on the 

lees ; 
One string is unbroken, one friend I can 

please ! 

Dear comrade, the sunshine of seasons 
gone by 

Looks out from your tender and tear- 
moistened eye, 

A pharos of love on an ice-girdled 
coast, — 

Kind soul ! — Don't you hear me ? — 
He 's deaf as a post ! 

Can it be one of Nature's benevolent 
tricks 



That you grow hard of hearing as I grow 

prolix ? 
And that look of delight which would 

angels beguile 
Is the deaf man's prolonged unintelligent 

smile ? 

Ah ! the ear may grow dull, and the eye 

may wax dim, 
But they still know a classmate — they 

can't mistake him ; 
There is something to tell us, " That 's 

one of our band," 
Though we groped in the dark for a touch 

of his hand. 

Well, Time with his snuffers is prowling 
about 

And his shaky old fingers will soon snuff 
us out ; 

There 's a hint for us all in each pendu- 
lum tick, 

For we 're low in the tallow and long in 
the wick. 

You remember Eossini — you 've been 

at the play ? 
How his overture-endings keep crashing 

away 
Till you think, " It 's all over — it can't 

but stop now — 
That 's the screech and the bang of the 

final bow-wow." 

And you find you 're mistaken ; there 's 
lots more to come, 

More banging, more screeching of fiddle 
and drum, 

Till when the last ending is finished and 
done, 

You feel like a horse when the winning- 
post 's won. 

So I, who have sung to you, merry ol 
sad, 



OUR SWEET SINGER. 



261 



Since the days when they called me a 
promising lad, 

Though I 've made you more rhymes 
than a tutor could scan, 

Have a few more still left, like the razor- 
strop man. 

Now pray don't be frightened — I 'm 

ready to stop 
My galloping anapests' clatter and pop — 
In fact, if you say so, retire from to-day 
To the garret I left, on a poet's half-pay. 

And yet — I can't help it — perhaps — 

who can tell ? 
You might miss the poor singer you 

treated so well, 
And confess you could stand him five 

minutes or so, 
"It was so like old times we remember, 

you know." 

'T is not that the music can signify 

much, 
But then there are chords that awake 

with a touch, — 
And our hearts can find echoes of sorrow 

and joy 
To the winch of the minstrel who hails 

from Savoy. 

So this hand-organ tune that I cheerfully 
grind 

May bring the old places and faces to 
mind, 

And seen in the light of the past we re- 
call 

The flowers that have faded bloom fair- 
est of all ! 

1872. 

OUR SWEET SINGER. 

* 
J. A. 

One memory trembles on our lips : 
It throbs in every breast ; 



In tear-dimmed eyes, in mirth's eclipse, 
The shadow stands confessed. 

silent voice, that cheered so long 
Our manhood's marching day, 

Without thy breath of heavenly song, 
How weary seems the way! 

Vain every pictured phrase to tell 
Our sorrowing heart's desire ; 

The shattered harp, the broken shell, 
The silent unstrung lyre ; 

For youth was round us while he sang ; 

It glowed in every tone ; 
With bridal chimes the echoes rang, 

And made the past our own. 

blissful dream ! Our nursery joys 
We know must have an end, 

But love and friendship's broken toys 
May God's good angels mend ! 

The cheering smile, the voice of mirth 
And laughter's gay surprise 

That please the children born of earth, 
Why deem that Heaven denies ? 

Methinks in that refulgent sphere 
That knows not sun or moon, 

An earth-born saint might long to hear 
One verse of " Bonny Doon " ; 

Or walking through the streets of gold 
In Heaven's unclouded light, 

His lips recall the song of old 
And hum " The sky is bright." 
* * * 

And can we smile when thou art dead ! 

Ah, brothers, even so ! 
The rose of summer will be red, 

In spite of winter's snow. 

Thou wouldst not leave us all in gloom 

Because thy song is still, 
Nor blight the banquet-garland's bloom 

With grief's untimely chill. 



232 



POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29. 



The sighing wintry winds complain, — 
The singing bird has flown, — 

Hark ! heard I not that ringing strain, 
That clear celestial tone ? 

How poor these pallid phrases seem, 
How weak this tinkling line, 

As warbles through my waking dream 
That angel voice of thine ! 

Thy requiem asks a sweeter lay ; 

It falters on my tongue ; 
For all we vainly strive to say, 

Thou shouldst thyself have sung ! 



1873. 

* * * 

H.C.M. H.S. J.K.W. 

The dirge is played, the throbbing 
death-peal rung; 
The sad- voiced requiem sung 
On each white urn where memory 

dwells 
The wreath of rustling immortelles 
Our loving hands have hung, 
Andbalmiest leaves have strown and ten- 
derest blossoms flung. 

The birds that filled the air with songs 
have flown, 
The wintry blasts have blown, 
And these for whom the voice of 

spring 
Bade the sweet choirs their carols 
sing 
Sleep in those chambers lone 
Where snows untrodden lie, unheard the 
night-winds moan. 

We clasp them all in memory, as the 
vine 
Whose running stems intwine, 
The marble shaft, and steal around, 



The lowly stone, the nameless 
mound ; 
With sorrowing hearts resign 
Our brothers true and tried, and close 
our broken line. 

How fast the lamps of life grow dim 
and die 
Beneath our sunset sky ! 
Still fading, as along our track 
We cast our saddened glances back, 
And while we vainly sigh 
The shadowy day recedes, the starry 
night draws nigh. 

As when from pier to pier across the 
tide 
With even keel we glide, 
The lights we left along the shore 
Grow less and less, while more, yet 
more 
New vistas open wide 
Of fair illumined streets and casements 
golden-eyed. 

Each closing circle of our sunlit sphere 
Seems to bring Heaven more near : 
Can we not dream that those we love 
Are listening in the world above 
And smiling as they hear 
The voices known so well of friends that 
still are dear ? 

Does all that made us human fade away 
With this dissolving clay ? 
Nay, rather deem the blessed isles 
Are bright and gay with joyous 
smiles, 
That angels have their play, 
And saints that tire of song may claim 
their holiday. 

All else of earth may perish ; love alone 

Not Heaven shall find outgrown J 

Are they not here, our spirit guests 

With love still throbbing in theil 

breasts ? 



WHAT I HAVE COME FOR. — OUR BANKER. 



233 



Once more let flowers be strown. 
Welcome, ye shadowy forms, we count 
you still our own ! 

1873. 

WHAT I HAVE COME FOR. 

I have come with my verses — I think 

I may claim 
It is not the first time I have tried on 

the same. 
They were puckered in rhyme, they 

were wrinkled in wit ; 
But your hearts were so large that they 

made them a fit. 

I have come — not to tease you with 

more of my rhyme, 
But to feel as I did in the blessed old 

time ; 
I want to hear him with the Brobding- 

nag laugh — 
We count him at least as three men and 

a half. 

I have come to meet judges so wise and 

so grand 
That I shake in my shoes while they 're 

shaking my hand ; 
And the prince among merchants who 

put back the crown 
When they tried to enthrone him the 

King qf the Town. 

I have come to see George — Yes, I 

think there are four, 
If they all were like these I could wish 

there were more. 
I have come to see one whom we used 

to call "Jim," 
I want to see — 0, don't I want to see 

him? 

I have come to grow young — on my 
word I declare 



I have thought I detected a change in 

my hair ! 
One hour with "The Boys " will restore 

it to brown — 
And a wrinkle or two I expect to rub 

down. 

Yes, that 's what I 've come for, as all 

of us come ; 
When I meet the dear Boys I could wish 

I weue dumb. 
You asked me, you know, but it 's 

spoiling the fun ; 
I have told what I came for ; my ditty 

is done. 



1874. 

OUR BANKER. 

Old Time, in whose bank we deposit 

our notes, 
Is a miser who always wants guineas for 

groats ; 
He keeps all his customers still in arrears 
By lending them minutes and charging 

them years. 

The twelvemonth rolls round and we 

never forget 
On the counter before us to pay him our 

debt. 
We reckon the marks he has chalked on 

the door, 
Pay up and shake hands and begin a 

new score. 

How long he will lend us, how much we 

may owe, 
No angel will tell us, no mortal may 

know. 
At fivescore, at fourscore, at threescore 

and ten, 
He may close the account with a stroke 

of his pen. 



234 



POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29. 



This only we know, — amid sorrows and 

joys 
Old Time has been easy and "kind with 

"The Boys." 
Though he must have and will have 

and does have his pay, 
We have found him good-natured 

enough in his way. 

He never forgets us, as others will 

do, — 
I am sure he knows me, and I think he 

knows you, 
For I see on your foreheads a mark that 

he lends 
As a sign he remembers to visit his 

friends. 

In the shape of a classmate (a wig on 

his crown, — 
His day-book and ledger laid carefully 

down) 
He has welcomed us yearly, a glass in 

his hand, 
And pledged the good health of our 

brotherly band. 

He 's a thief, we must own, but how 

many there be 
That rob us less gently and fairly than 

he: 
He has stripped the green leaves that 

were over us all, 
But they let in the sunshine as fast as 

they fall. 

Young beauties may ravish the world 
with a glance 

As they languish in song, as they float 
in the dance, — 

They are grandmothers now we remem- 
ber as girls, 

And the comely white cap takes the 
place of the curls. 



But the sighing and moaning and groan, 
ing are o'er, 

"We are pining and moping and sleepless 
no more, 

And the hearts that were thumping like 
ships on the rocks 

Beat as quiet and steady as meeting- 
house clocks. 

The trump of ambition, loud sounding 

and shrill, 
May blow its long blast, but the echoes 

are still, 
The spring-tides are past, but no billow 

may reach 
The spoils they have landed far up on 

the beach. 

We see that Time robs us, we know 
that he cheats, 

But we still find a charm in his pleas- 
ant deceits, 

While he leaves the remembrance of all 
that was best, 

Love, friendship, and hope, and the 
promise of rest. 

Sweet shadows of twilight ! how calm 
their repose, 

While the dewdrops fall soft in the 
breast of the rose ! 

How blest to the toiler his hour of re- 
lease 

When the vesper is heard with its whis° 
per of peace ! 

Then here 's to the wrinkled old miser, 

our friend ; 
May he send us his > bills to the century's 

end, 
And lend us the moments no sorrow 

alloys, 
Till he squares his account with the last 

of " The Boys." 



FOR CLASS MEETING. 



235 



1875. 

FOR CLASS MEETING. 

It is a pity and a shame — alas ! alas ! 

I know it is, 
To tread the trodden grapes again, but 

so it has been, so it is ; 
The purple vintage long is past, with 

ripened clusters bursting so 
They filled the wine-vats to the brim — 

't is stfrange you will be thirsting so ! 

Too well our faithful memory tells what 

might be rhymed or sung about, 
For all have sighed and some have wept 

since last year's snows were flung 

about ; 
Tb.3 beacon flame that fired the sky, the 

modest ray that gladdened us, 
A little breath has quenched their light, 

and deepening shades have saddened 

us. 

No more our brother's life is ours for 

cheering or for grieving us, 
One only sadness they bequeathed, the 

sorrow of their leaving us ; 
Farewell ! Farewell ! — I turn the leaf 

I read my chiming measure in ; 
Who knows but something still is there 

a friend may find a pleasure in ? 

For who can tell by what he likes what 

other people's fancies are ? 
How all men think the best of wives 

their own particular Nancies are ? 
If what I sing you brings a smile, you 

will not stop to catechise, 
Nor read Bceotia's lumbering line with 

nicely scanning Attic eyes. 

Perhaps the alabaster box that Mary 

broke so lovingly, 
While Judas looked so sternly on, the 

Master so approvingly, 



Was not so fairly wrought as those that 
Pilate's wife and daughters had, 

Or many a dame of Judah's line that 
drank of Jordan's waters had. 

Perhaps the balm that cost so dear, as 

some remarked officiously, 
The precious nard that filled the room 

with fragrance so deliciously, 
So oft recalled in storied page and sung 

in verse melodious, 
The dancing girl had thought too cheap 

— that daughter of Herodias. 

Where now are all the mighty deeds 

that Herod boasted loudest of? 
Where now the flashing jewelry the 

tetrarch's wife was proudest of? 
Yet still to hear how Mary loved, all 

tribes of men are listening, 
And still the sinful woman's tears like 

stars in heaven are glistening. 

'T is not the gift our hands have brought, 

the love it is we bring with it, 
The minstrel's lips may shape the song, 

his heart in tune must sing with it ; 
And so we love the simple lays, and 

wish we might have more of them 
Our poet brothers sing for us — there 

must be half a score of them. 

It may be that of fame and name our 
voices once were emulous, — 

With deeper thoughts, with tenderer 
throbs their softening tones are 
tremulous ; 

The dead seem listening as of old, ere 
friendship was bereft of them ; 

The living wear a kinder smile, the rem- 
nant that is left of them. 

Though on the once unfurrowed brows 
the harrow-teeth of Time may show, 

Though all the strain of crippling years 
the halting feet of rhyme may show, 



236 



POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29. 



We look and hear with melting hearts, 
for what we all remember is 

The morn of Spring, nor heed how chill 
the sky of gray November is. 

Thanks to the gracious powers aboye 

from all mankind that singled us, 
And dropped the pearl of friendship in 

the cup they kindly mingled us, 
And bound us in a wreath of flowers 

with hoops of steel knit under it ; — 
Nor time, nor space, nor chance, nor 

change, nor death himself shall 

sunder it ! 



1876. 

"AD AM I COS." 

"Dumque virent genua 
Et decet, obducta solvatur fronte senectus." 

The muse of boyhood's fervid hour 

Grows tame as skies get chill and hazy; 
Where once she sought a passion-flower, 

She only hopes to find a daisy. 
Well, who the changing world bewails ? 

Who asks to have it stay unaltered ? 
Shall grown-up kittens chase their tails ? 

Shall colts be never shod or haltered ? 

Are we "the boys " that used to make 

The tables ring with noisy follies ? 
Whose deep-lunged laughter oft would 
shake 

The ceiling with its thunder- volleys ? 
Are we the youths with lips unshorn, 

At beauty's feet unwrinkled suitors, 
Whose memories reach tradition's 
morn — 

The days of prehistoric tutors ? 

]( The boys " we knew — but who are 
these 
Whose heads might serve for Plu- 
tarch's sages, 



Or Fox's martyrs, if you please, 

Or hermits of the dismal ages ? 
"The boys" we knew — can these be 
those ? 
Their cheeks with morning's blush 
were painted;^ 
Where are the Harrys, Jims, and Joes 
With whom we once were well 
acquainted ? 

If we are they, we 're not the same ; 
If they are we, why then they're 
masking ; 
Do tell us, neighbor What 's-your-name, 
Who are you ? — What 's the use of 
asking ? 
You once were George, or Bill, or Ben ; 
There 's you, yourself — there 's you, 

that other — 
I know you now — I knew you then — 
You used to be your younger brother ! 

You both are all our own to-day — 

But ah ! I hear a warning whisper; 
Yon roseate hour that flits away 

Repeats the Roman's sad paulisper. 
Come back ! come back ! we 've need of 
you 

To pay you for your word of warning; 
We '11 bathe your wings in brighter dew 

Than ever wet the lids of morning ! 

Behold this cup ; its mystic wine 

No alien's lip has ever tasted ; 
The blood of friendship's clinging 
vine, 

Still flowing, flowing, yet unwasted ; 
Old Time forgot his running sand 

And laid his hour-glass down to fill it, 
And Death himself with gentle hand 

Has touched the chalice, not to spill 
it. 

Each bubble rounding at the brim 
Is rainbowed with its magic story ; 



HOW NOT TO SETTLE IT, 



237 



Che shining days with age grown dim 
Are dressed again in robes of glory ; 
In all its freshness spring returns 
With song of birds and blossoms 
tender ; 
Once more the torch of passion burns, 
And youth is here in all its splen- 
dor! 

Hope swings her anchor like a toy, 

Love laughs and shows the silver arrow 
We knew so well as man and boy, — 

The shaft that stings through bone 
and marrow; 
Again our kindling pulses beat, 

With tangled curls our fingers dally, 
And bygone beauties smile as sweet 

As fresh-blown lilies of the valley. 

blessed hour ! we may forget 

Its wreaths, its rhymes, its songs, its 
laughter, 
But not the loving eyes we met, 
Whose light shall gild the dim here- 
after. 
How every heart to each grows warm ! 
Is one in sunshine's ray ? We share 
it. 
Is one in sorrow's blinding storm ? 
A look, a word, shall help him bear it. 

" The boys " we were, " the boys " we '11 
be 
As long as three, as two, are creep- 
ing ; 
Then here 's to him — ah ! which is 
he? — 
Who lives till all the rest are sleep- 
ing; 
A life with tranquil comfort blest, 
The young man's health, the rich 
man's plenty, 
All earth can give that earth has best, 
And heaven at fourscore years and 
twenty. 



1877. 

HOW NOT TO SETTLE IT 

I like, at times, to hear the steeple^ 
chimes 
With sober thoughts impressively 
that mingle ; 
But sometimes, too, I rather like — 
don't you? — 
To hear the music of the sleigh bells' 
jingle. 

I like full well the deep resounding 
swell 
Of mighty symphonies with chords 
inwoven ; 
But sometimes, too, a song of Burns — 
don't you ? 
After a solemn storm-blast of Beetho- 
ven. 

Good to the heels the well-worn slipper 
feels 
When the tired player shuffles off the 
buskin ; 
A page cf Hood may do a fellow good 
After a scolding from Carlyle or Rus- 
kin. 

Some works I find, — say Watts upon 
the Mind, — 
No matter though at first they seemed 
amusing, 
Not quite the same, but just a little tame 
After some five or six times' reperus* 
ing. 

So, too, at times when melancholy 
rhymes 
Or solemn speeches sober down a din- 
ner, 
I 've seen it, 's true, quite often, — . 
have n't you ? — 
The best-fed guests perceptibly grow 
thinner. 



238 



POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '2& 



Better some jest (in proper terms ex- 
pressed) 
Or story (strictly moral) even if musty, 
Or song we sung when these old throats 
were young, — 
Something to keep our souls from 
getting rusty. 

The poorest scrap from memory's ragged 
lap 
Comes like an heirloom from a dear 
dead mother — 
Hush ! there 's a tear that has no busi- 
ness here, 
A half-formed sigh that ere its birth 
we smother. 

"We cry, we laugh ; ah, life is half and 
half, 
Now bright and joyous as a song of 
Herrick's, 
Then chill and bare as funeral-minded 
Blair ; 
As fickle as a female in hysterics. 

If I could make you cry I would n't try ; 
If you have hidden smiles I 'd like to 
find them, 
And that although, as well I ought to 
know, 
The lips of laughter have a skull be- 
hind them. 

Yet when I think we may be on the 
brink 
Of having Freedom's banner to dis- 
pose of, 
All crimson-hued, because the Nation 
would 
Insist on cutting its own precious 
nose off, 

I feel indeed as if we rather need 
A sermon such as preachers tie a text 
an. 



If Freedom dies because a ballot lies, 
She earns her grave ; 't is time to call 
the sexton ! 

But if a fight can make the matter right, 
Here are we, classmates, thirty men 
of mettle ; * 

We 're strong and tough, we 've liveu 
nigh long enough — 
What if the Nation gave it us tc 
settle ? 

The tale would read like that illustrious 
deed 
When Curtius took the leap the gap 
that filled in, 
Thus; "Fivescore years, good friends, 
as it appears, 
At last this people split on Hayes and 
Tilden. 

"One half cried, 'See! the choice is 
S. J. T. ! ' 
And one half swore as stoutly it was 
t' other ; 
Both drew the knife to save the Na- 
tion's life 
By wholesale vivisection of each other. 

" Then rose in mass that monumental 
Class, — ■ 
* Hold ! hold ! ' they cried, ' give us, 
give us the daggers ! ' 
' Content ! content ! ' exclaimed with 
one consent 
The gaunt ex-rebels and the carpet- 
baggers. 

"Fifteen each side, the combats f i 
divide, 
So nicely balanced are their predilec- 
tions ; 
And first of all a tear-drop each lets fall, 
A tribute to their obsolete affections. 



HOW NOT TO SETTLE IT. 



239 



" Man facing man, the sanguine strife 
began, 
Jack, Jim and Joe against Tom, Dick 
and Harry, 
Each several pair its own account to 
square, 
Till both were down or one stood soli- 
tary. 

" And the great fight raged furious all 

the night 

Till every integer was made a fraction ; 

Reader, wouldst know what history has 

to show 

As net result of the above transaction ? 

"Whole coat-tails, four; stray frag- 
ments, several score ; 
A heap of spectacles ; a deaf man's 
trumpet ; 
Six lawyers' briefs ; seven pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs ; 
Twelve canes wherewith the owners 
used to stump it ; 

" Odd rubber-shoes ; old gloves of dif- 
ferent hues ; 
Tax-bills, — unpaid, — and several 
empty purses ; 
And, saved from harm by some protect- 
ing charm, 
A printed page with Smith's immortal 
verses ; 

"Trifles that claim no very special 
name, — 
Some useful, others chiefly ornament- 
al ; 
Pins, buttons, rings, and other trivial 
things, 
With various wrecks, capillary and 
dental. 

" Also, one flag, — 't was nothing but a 
rag, 



And what device it bore it little mat- 
ters ; 
Red, white, and blue, but rent all 
through and through, 
1 Union forever ' torn to shreds and 
tatters. 

" They fought so well not one was left 
to tell 
Which got the largest share of cuts 
and slashes ; 
When heroes meet, both sides are bound 
to beat ; 
They telescoped like cars in railroad 
smashes. 

" So the great split that baffled human 
wit 
And might have cost the lives of 
twenty millions, 
As all may see that know the rule of 
three, 
Was settled just as well by these 
civilians. 

"As well. Just so. Net worse, not 
better. No, 
Next morning found the Nation still 
divided ; 
Since all were slain, the inference is 
plain 
They left the point they fought for 
undecided." 



If not quite true, as I have told it you, — 

This tale of mutual extermination, 
To minds perplexed with threats of 
what comes next, 
Perhaps may furnish food for contem- 
plation. 

To cut men's throats to help them count 
their votes 
Is asinine — nay, worse — ascidian 
folly; 



240 



POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29. 



Blindness like that would scare the 
mole and hat, 
And make the liveliest monkey mel- 
ancholy. 

I say once more, as I have said be* 

fore, 
If voting for our Tildens and our 

Hayeses 
Means only fight, then, Liberty, good 

night! 



Pack up your ballot-box and go to 
blazes ! 

Unfurl your blood-red flags, you mur- 
derous hags, 
You petroleuses of Paris, fierce and 
foamy ; 
"We '11 sell our stock in Plymouth's 
blasted rock, 
Pull up our stakes and migrate to 
Dahomey ! 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



1863 - 1874. 



OPENING THE WINDOW. 

Thus I lift the sash, so long 
Shut against the flight of song ; 
All too late for vain excuse, — 
Lo, my captive rhymes are loose ! 

Rhymes that, flitting through my brain, 
Beat against my window-pane, 
Some with gayly colored wings, 
Some, alas ! with venomed stings. 

Shall they bask in sunny rays ? 
Shall they feed on sugared praise ? 
Shall they stick with tangled feet 
On the critic's poisoned sheet ? 

Are the outside winds too rough ? 
Is the world not wide enough? 
Go, my winged verse, and try, — 
Go, like Uncle Toby's fly ! 



PROGRAMME. 

Reader — gentle — if so be 
Such still live, and live for me, 
Will it please you to be told 
What my tenscore pages hold? 

Here are verses that in spite 

Of myself I needs must write, 

Like the wine that oozes first 

When the unsqueezed grapes have burst. 



Here are angry lines, " too hard !** 
Says the soldier, battle-scarred. 
Could I smile his scars away 
I would blot the bitter lay, 

Written with a knitted brow, 
Read with placid wonder now. 
Throbbed such passion in my heart? 
— Did his wounds once really smart? 

Here are varied strains that sing 
All the changes lite can bring, 
Songs when joyous friends have met, 
Songs the mourner's tears have wet. 

See the banquet's dead bouquet, 
Fair and fragrant in its day ; 
Do they read the selfsame lines, — 
He that fasts and he that dines i 

Year by year, like milestones placed, 
Mark the record Friendship traced. 
Prisoned in the walls of time 
Life has notched itself in rhyme : 

As its seasons slid along, 
Every year a notch of song, 
From the June of long ago, 
When the rose was full in blow, 

Till the scarlet sage has come 
And the cold chrysanthemum. 
Read, but not to praise or blame ; 
Are not all our hearts the same ? 



242 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



For the rest, they take their chance, - 
Some may pay a passing glance ; 
Others, — well, they served a turn, — 
Wherefore written, would you learn ? 

Not for glory, not for pelf, 
Not, be sure, to please myself, 
Not for any meaner ends, — 
Always " by request of friends." 

Here 's the cousin of a king, — 
Would I do the civil thing? 
Here 's the first-born of a queen; 
Here 's a slant-eyed Mandarin. 

Would I polish off Japan ? 
Would I greet this famous man, 
Prince or Prelate, Sheik or Shah ? — 
— Figaro ci and Figaro la ! 

Would I just this once comply ? — 
So they teased and teased till I 



(Be the truth at once confessed) 
Wavered — yielded — did my best. 

Turn my pages, — never mind 
If you like not all you find ; 
Think not all the grains are gold 
Sacramento's sand-banks hold. 

Every kernel has its shell, 
Every chime its harshest bell, 
Every face its weariest look, 
Every shelf its emptiest book, 

Every field its leanest sheaf, 
Every book its dullest leaf, 
Every leaf its weakest line, — 
Shall it not be so with mine ? 

Best for worst shall make amends 5 
Find us, keep us, leave us friends 
Till, perchance, we meet again. 
Benedicite. — Amen ! 

October 7, 1874. 



■ 1 



IN THE QUIET DAYS. 



243 



IN THE QUIET DAYS. 



AN OLD-YEAR SONG. 

As through the forest, disarrayed 

By chill November, late I strayed, 

A lonely minstrel of the wood 

Was singing to the solitude : 

I loved thy music, thus I said, 

When o'er thy perch the leaves were 

spread ; 
Sweet was thy song, but sweeter now 
Thy carol on the leafless bough. 

Sing, little bird ! thy note shall cheer 
The sadness of the dying year. 

When violets pranked the turf with blue 
And morning filled their cups with dew, 
Thy slender voice with rippling trill 
The budding April bowers would fill, 
Nor passed its joyous tones away 
When April rounded into May : 
Thy life shall hail no second dawn, — 
Sing, little bird ! the spring is gone. 

And I remember — well-a-day ! — 
Thy full-blown summer roundelay, 
As when behind a broidered screen 
Some holy maiden sings unseen : 
With answering notes the woodland 

rung, 
And ever} 7 tree-top found a tongue. 
How deep the shade ! the groves how 

fair ! 
Sing, little bird ! the woods are bare. 

The summer's throbbing chant is done 

And mute the choral antiphon ; 

The birds have left the shivering pines 



To flit among the trellised vines, 
Or fan the air with scented plumes 
Amid the love-sick orange-blooms, 
And thou art here alone, — alone, — 
Sing, little bird ! the rest have flown. 

The snow has capped yon distant hill, 
At morn the running brook was still, 
From driven herds the clouds that rise 
Are like the smoke of sacrifice ; 
Erelong the frozen sod shall mock 
The ploughshare, changed to stubborn 

rock, 
The brawling streams shall soon be 

dumb, — 
Sing, little bird ! the frosts have como. 

Fast, fast the lengthening shadows 

creep, 
The songless fowls are half asleep, 
The air grows chill, the setting sun 
May leave thee ere thy song is done, 
The pulse that warms thy breast grow 

cold, 
Thy secret die with thee, untold : 
The lingering sunset still is bright, — 
Sing, little bird ! 't will soon be night. 
1874. 

DOROTHY Q= 

A FAMILY PORTRAIT. 

Grandmother's mother : her age, I 

guess, 
Thirteen summers, or something less ; 



244 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



Girlish bust, but womanly air ; 
Smooth, square forehead with uprolled 

hair, 
Lips that lover has never kissed ; 
Taper fingers and slender wrist ; 
Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade ; 
So they painted the little maid. 

On her hand a parrot green 
Sits unmoving and broods serene. 
Hold up the canvas full in view, — 
Look ! there 's a rent the light shines 

through, 
Dark with a century's fringe of dust, — 
That was a Red-Coat's rapier-thrust ! 
Such is the tale the lady old, 
Dorothy's daughter's daughter, told. 

Who the painter was none may tell, — 
One whose best was not over well ; 
Hard and dry, it must be confessed, 
Flat as a rose that has long been pressed ; 
Yet in her cheek the hues are bright, 
Dainty colors of red and white, 
And in her slender shape are seen 
Hint and promise of stately mien. 

Look not on her with eyes of scorn, — 
Dorothy Q. was a lady born ! 
Ay ! since the galloping Normans came, 
England's annals have known her name ; 
And still to the three-hilled rebel town 
Dear is that ancient name's renown, 
For many a civic wreath they won, 
The youthful sire and the gray-haired 
son. 

Damsel Dorothy ! Dorothy Q. ! 
Strange is the gift that I owe to you ; 
Such a gift as never a king 
Save to daughter or son might bring, — 
All my tenure of heart and hand, 
All my title to house and land ; 
Mother and sister and child and wife 
And joy and sorrow and death and life ! 



What if a hundred years ago 
Those close- shut lips had answered No, 
When forth the tremulous question came 
That cost the maiden her Norman name, 
And under the folds that look so still 
The bodice swelled with the bosom's 

thrill? 
Should I be I, or would it be 
One tenth another, to nine tenths me ? 

Soft is the breath of a maiden's Yes : 
Not the light gossamer stirs with less ; 
But never a cable that holds so fast 
Through all the battles of wave and 

blast, 
And never an echo of speech or song 
That lives in the babbling air so long ! 
There were tones in the voice that whis- 
pered then 
You may hear to-day in a hundred men. 

lady and lover, how faint and far 
Your images hover, — and here we are, 
Solid and stirring in flesh and bone, — 
Edward's and Dorothy's — all their 

own, — 
A goodly record for Time to show 
Of a syllable spoken so long ago ! — 
Shall I bless you, Dorothy, or forgive 
For the tender whisper that bade me 

live? 

It shall be a blessing, my little maid ! 

1 will heal the stab of the Red-Coat's 

blade, 
And freshen the gold of the tarnished 

frame, 
And gild with a rhyme your household 

name ; 
So you shall smile on us brave and bright 
As first you greeted the morning's light, 
And live untroubled by woes and fears 
Through a second youth of a hundred 

years, 

1871. 



Dorothy Q. 



IN THE QUIET DAYS. 



245 



THE ORGAN-BLOWER. 

Devoutest of niy Sunday friends, 
The patient Organ-blower bends ; 
I see his figure sink and rise, 
(Forgive me, Heaven, my wandering 

eyes !) 
A moment lost, the next half seen, 
His head above the scanty screen, 
Still measuring out his deep salaams 
Through quavering hymns and panting 

psalms. 

No priest that prays in gilded stole, 
To save a rich man's mortgaged soul ; 
No sister, fresh from holy vows, 
So humbly stoops, so meekly bows ; 
His large obeisance puts to shame 
The proudest genuflecting dame, 
Whose Easter bonnet low descends 
With all the grace devotion lends. 

brother with the supple spine, 
How much we owe those bows of thine ! 
Without thine arm to lend the breeze, 
How vain the finger on the keys ! 
Though all unmatched the player's skill, 
Those thousand throats were dumb and 

still : 
Another's art may shape the tone, 
The breath that fills it is thine own. 

Six days the silent Memnon waits 

Behind his temple's folded gates ; 

But when the seventh day's sunshine 

falls 
Through rainbowed windows on the 

walls, 
He breathes, he sings, he shouts, he fills 
The quivering air with rapturous thrills ; 
The roof resounds, the pillars shake, 
And all the slumbering echoes wake ! 

The Preacher from the Bible-text 
With weary words my soul has vexed 
(Some stranger, fumbling far astray 
To find the lesson for the day) ; 



He tells us truths too plainly true, 
And reads the service all askew, — 
Why, why the — mischief — can't he 

look 
Beforehand in the service-book ? 

But thou, with decent mien and faca. 

Art always ready in thy place ; 

Thy strenuous blast, whate'er the tune, 

As steady as the strong monsoon ; 

Thy only dread a leathery creak, 

Or small residual extra squeak, 

To send along the shadowy aisles 

A sunlit wave of dimpled smiles. 

Not all the preaching, my friend, 
Comes from the church's pulpit end ! 
Not all that bend the knee and bow 
Yield service half so true as thou ! 
One simple task performed aright, 
With slender skill, but all thy might, 
Where honest labor does its best, 
And leaves the player all the rest. 

This many-diapasoned maze, 

Through which the breath of being 

strays, 
Whose music makes our earth divine, 
Has work for mortal hands like mine. 
My duty lies before me. Lo, 
The lever there ! Take hold and blow ! 
And He whose hand is on the keys 
Will play the tune as He shall please. 

1872. 

AT THE PANTOMIME. 

The house was crammed from roof to 

floor, 
Heads piled on heads at every door ; 
Half dead with August's seething heat 
I crowded on and found my seat, 
My patience slightly out of joint, 
My tamper short of boiling-point, 
Not quite at Hate mankind as such t 
Nor yet at Love them overmuch. 



246 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



Amidst the throng the pageant drew 
"Were gathered Hebrews not a few, 
Black-bearded, swarthy, — at their side 
Dark, jewelled women, orient-eyed : 
If scarce a Christian hopes for grace 
Who crowds one in his narrow place 
What will the savage victim do 
Whose ribs are kneaded by a Jew ? 

Next on my left a breathing form 
Wedged up against me, close and warm ; 
The beak that crowned the bistred face 
Betrayed the mould of Abraham's race, — 
That coal-black hair, that smoke-brown 

hue, — 
Ah, cursed, unbelieving Jew ! 
I started, shuddering, to the right, 
And squeezed — a second Israelite ! 

Then woke the evil brood of rage 
That slumber, tongueless, in their cage ; 
I stabbed in turn with silent oaths 
The hook-nosed kite of carrion clothes, 
The snaky usurer, him that crawls 
And cheats beneath the golden balls, 
Moses and Levi, all the horde, 
Spawn of the race that slew its Lord. 

Up came their murderous deeds of old, 
The grisly story Chaucer told, 
And many an ugly tale beside 
Of children caught and crucified ; 
I heard the ducat-sweating thieves 
Beneath the Ghetto's slouching eaves, 
And, thrust beyond the tented green, 
The lepers cry, " Unclean ! Unclean ! " 

The show went on, but, ill at ease, 

My sullen eye it could not please, 

In vain my conscience whispered, 

"Shame! 
Who but their Maker is to blame ? " 
I thought of Judas and his bribe, 
And steeled my soul against their tribe : 
My neighbors stirred ; I looked again 
Full on the younger of the twain. 



A fresh young cheek whose olive hue 
The mantling blood shows faintly 

through ; 
Locks dark as midnight, that divide 
And shade the neck on either side ; 
Soft, gentle, loving eyes that gleam 
Clear as a starlit mountain stream ; — 
So looked that other child of Shem, 
The Maiden's Boy of Bethlehem ! 

— And thou couldst scorn the peerless 

blood 
That flows unmingled from the Flood, — 
Thy scutcheon spotted with the stains 
Of Norman thieves and pirate Danes ! 
The New World's foundling, in thy pride 
Scowl on the- Hebrew at thy side, 
And lo ! the very semblance there 
The Lord of Glory deigned to wear ! 

I see that radiant image vise, 
The flowing hair, the pitying eyes, 
The faintly crimsoned cheek that shows 
The blush of Sharon's opening rose, — 
Thy hands would clasp his hallowed feet 
Whose brethren soil thy Christian seat, 
Tlvy lips would press his garment's hem 
That curl in wrathful scorn for them ! 

A sudden mist, a watery screen, 
Dropped like a veil before the scene ; 
The shadow floated from my soul, 
And to my lips a whisper stole, — 
1 ' Thy prophets caught the Spirit's flame, 
From thee the Son of Mary came, 
With thee the Father deigned to dwell, -+ 
Peace be upon thee, Israel ! " 

18 — . Rewritten 1874. 



AFTER THE FIRE. 

While far along the eastern sky 
I saw the flags of Havoc fly, 
As if his forces would assault 
The sovereign of the starry vault 



IN THE QUIET DAYS. 



247 



And hurl Him back the burning rain 
That seared the cities of the plain, 
I read as on a crimson page 
The words of Israel's sceptred sage : — 

For riches make, them wings, and they 
Do as an eagle fly away. 

vision of that sleepless night, 
What hue shall paint the mocking light 
That burned and stained the orient skies 
Where peaceful morning loves to rise, 
As if the sun had lost his way 
And dawned to make a second day, — 
Above how red with fiery glow, 
How dark to those it woke below ! 

On roof and wall, on dome and spire, 
Flashed the false jewels of the fire ; 
Girt with her belt of glittering panes, 
And crowned with starry-gleaming vanes, 
Our northern queen in glory shone 
With new-born splendors not her own, 
And stood, transfigured in our eyes, 
A victim decked for sacrifice ! 

The cloud still hovers overhead, 
And still the midnight sky is red ; 
As the lost wanderer strays alone 
To seek the place he called his own, 
His devious footprints sadly tell 
How changed the pathways known so 

well ; 
The scene, how new ! The tale, how old 
Ere yet the ashes have grown cold I 

Again I read the words that came 
Writ in the rubric of the flame : 
Howe'er we trust to mortal things, 
Each hath its pair of folded wings ; 
Though long their terrors rest unspread 
Their fatal plumes are never shed ; 
At last, at last, they stretch in flight, 
And blot the day and blast the night 1 



Hope, only Hope, of all that clings 
Around us, never spreads her wings ; 
Love, though he break his earthly chain, 
Still whispers he will come again ; 
But Faith that soars to seek the sky 
Shall teach our half-fledged souls to fly, 
And find, beyond the smoke and flame, 
The cloudless azure whence they came ! 
1872. 

A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA- 
PARTY. 

No ! never such a draught was poured 

Since Hebe served with nectar 
The bright Olympians and their Lord, 

Her over-kind protector, — 
Since Father Noah squeezed the grape 

And took to such behaving 
As would have shamed our grandsire ape 

Before the days of shaving, — 
No ! ne'er was mingled such a draught 

In palace, hall, or arbor, 
As freemen brewed and tyrants quaffed 

That night in Boston Harbor ! 
It kept King George so long awake 

His brain at last got addled, 
It made the nerves of Britain shake, 

With sevenscore millions saddled ; 
Before that bitter cup was drained, 

Amid the roar of cannon, 
The Western war-cloud's crimson stained 

The Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon; 
Full many a six-foot grenadier 

The flattened grass had measured, 
And many a mother many a year 

Her tearful memories treasured ; 
Fast spread the tempest's darkening pal], 

The mighty realms were troubled, 
The storm broke loose, but first of all 

The Boston teapot bubbled ! 

An evening party, — only that, 

No formal invitation, 
No gold-laced coat, no stiff cravat, 

No feast in contemplation, 



248 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



No silk-robed dames, no fiddling band, 

No flowers, no songs, no dancing, — 
A tribe of Eed men, axe in hand, — 

Behold the guests advancing ! 
How fast the stragglers join the throng, 

From stall and workshop gathered ! 
The lively barber skips along 

And leaves a chin half-lathered ; 
The smith has flung his hammer down, — 

The horseshoe still is glowing ; 
The truant tapster at the Crown 

Has left a beer-cask flowing ; 
The cooper's boys have dropped the adze, 

And trot behind their master ; 
Up run the tarry ship-yard lads, — 

The crowd is hurrying faster, — 
Out from the Millpond's purlieus gush 

The streams of white-faced millers, 
And down their slippery alleys rush 

The lusty young Fort-Hillers ; 
The ropewalk lends its 'prentice crew, — 

The tories seize the omen : 
" Ay, boys, you '11 soon have work to do 

For England's rebel foemen, 
'King Hancock,' Adams, and their gang, 

That fire the mob with treason, — 
When these we shoot and those we 
hang 

The town will come to reason." 

On — on to where the tea-ships ride ! 

And now their ranks are forming, — 
A rush, and up the Dartmouth's side 

The Mohawk band is swarming ! 
See the fierce natives ! What a glimpse 

Of paint and fur and feather, 
As all at once the full-grown imps 

Light on the deck together ! 
A scarf the pigtail's secret keeps, 

A blanket hides the breeches, — 
And out the cursed cargo leaps, 

And overboard it pitches ! 

woman, at the evening board 
So gracious, sweet, and purring, 



So happy while the tea is poured, 
So blest while spoons are stirring, 

What martyr can compare with thee ; 
The mother, wife, or daughter, 

That night, instead of best Bohea, 
Condemned to milk and water ! 

Ah, little dreams the quiet dame 

Who plies with rock and spindle 
The patient flax, how great a flame 

Yon little spark shall kindle ! 
The lurid morning shall reveal 

A fire no king can smother 
Where British flint and Boston steel 

Have clashed against each other ! 
Old charters shrivel in its track, 

His Worship's bench has crumbled, 
It climbs and clasps the union-jackj 

Its blazoned pomp is humbled, 
The flags go down on land and sea 

Like corn before the reapers ; 
So burned the fire that brewed the tea 

That Boston served her keepers ! 

The waves that wrought a century*a 
wreck 

Have rolled o'er whig and tory ; 
The Mohawks on the Dartmouth's deck 

Still live in song and story ; 
The waters in the rebel bay 

Have kept the tea-leaf savor ; 
Our old North-Enders in their spray 

Still taste a Hyson flavor ; 
And Freedom's teacup still o'erflows 

With ever fresh libations, 
To cheat of slumber all her foes 

And cheer the wakening nations J 

1874. 

NEARING THE SNOW-LINE. 

Slow toiling upward from the misty 
vale, 
I leave the bright enamelled zones 
below j 



Out the cursed cargo leaps, 
And overboard it pitch.es 



IN THE QUIET DAYS. 



249 



No more for me their beauteous bloom 
shall glow, 
Their lingering sweetness load the morn- 
ing gale ; 
Few are the slender flowerets, scentless, 
pale, 
That on their ice-clad stems all trem- 
bling blow 
Along the margin of unmelting 
snow; 
Set with unsaddened voice thy verge I 
hail, 



White realm of peace above the flower- 
ing line ; 
Welcome thy frozen domes, thy rocky 
spires ! 
O'er thee undimmed the moon-girt 
planets shine, 
On thy majestic altars fade the fires 
That filled the air with smoke of vain 
desires, 
And all the unclouded blue of heavea 

is thine 1 
1870. 



250 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



IN WAR TIME. 



TO CANAAN. 
A PURITAN WAR- SONG. 

Where are you going, soldiers, 

"With banner, gun, and sword ? 
We 're marching South to Canaan 

To battle for the Lord ! 
What Captain leads your armies 

Along the rebel coasts ? 
The Mighty One of Israel, 
His name is Lord of Hosts ! 
To Canaan, to Canaan 
The Lord has led us forth, 
To blow before the heathen walls 
The trumpets of the North ! 

What flag is this you carry 
Along the sea and shore ? 
The same our grandsires lifted up, — 

The same our fathers bore ! 
In many a battle's tempest 

It shed the crimson rain, — 
What God has woven in his loom 
Let no man rend in twain ! 
To Canaan, to Canaan 
The Lord has led us forth, 
To plant upon the rebel towers 
The banners of the North ! 

What troop is this that follows, 
All armed with picks and spades I 1 

These are the swarthy bondsmen, — 
The iron-skin brigades ! 

1 The captured slaves were at this time or- 
ganized as pioneers. 



They '11 pile up Freedom's breastwork, 

They '11 scoop out rebels' graves ; 
Who then will be their owner 
And march them off for slaves ? 
To Canaan, to Canaan 
The Lord has led us forth, 
To strike upon the captive's chain 
The hammers of the North ! 

What song is this you 're singing? 

The same that Israel sung 
When Moses led the mighty choir, 

And Miriam's timbrel rung ! 
To Canaan ! To Canaan ! 

The priests and maidens cried : 
To Canaan ! To Canaan ! 
The people's voice replied. 
To Canaan, to Canaan 
The Lord has led us forth, 
To thunder through its adder dens 
The anthems of the North ! 

When Canaan's hosts are scattered, 

And all her walls lie flat, 
What follows next in order? 

— The Lord will see to that ! 
We '11 break the tyrant's sceptre, — 

We '11 build the people's throne, — 
When half the world is Freedom's, 
Then all the world's our own ! 
To Canaan, to Canaan 
The Lord has led us forth, 
To sweep the rebel threshing- floorS| 
A whirlwind from the North ! 

August 12, 1862. 



IN WAR TIME. 



251 



"THUS SAITH THE LORD, I OFFER 
THEE THREE THINGS." 

In poisonous dens, where traitors hide 

Like bats that fear the day, 
While all the land our charters claim 
Is sweating blood and breathing flame, 
Dead to their country's woe and shame, 
The recreants whisper Stay ! 

In peaceful homes, where patriot fires 

On Love's own altars glow, 
The mother hides her trembling fear, 
The wife, the sister, cheeks a tear, 
To breathe the parting word of cheer, 

Soldier of Freedom, Go ! 

In halls where Luxury lies at ease, 
And Mammon keeps his state, 

Where flatterers fawn and menials 
crouch, 

The dreamer, startled from his couch, 

Wrings a few counters from his pouch, 
And murmurs faintly Wait ! 

In weary camps, on trampled plains 

That ring with fife and drum, 
The battling host, whose harness gleams 
Along the crimson-flowing streams, 
Calls, like a warning voice in dreams, 
We want you, Brother ! Come ! 

Choose ye whose bidding ye will do, — 

To go, to wait, to stay ! 
Sons of the Freedom-loving town, 
Heirs of the Fathers' old renown, 
The servile yoke, the civic crown, 

Await your choice To-day ! 

The stake is laid ! gallant youth 

With yet unsilvered brow, 
If Heaven should lose and Hell should 

win, 
On whom shall lie the mortal sin, 
That cries aloud, It might have been ? 

God calls you — answer NOW. 

1862. 



NEVER OR NOW. 

AN APPEAL. 

Listen, young heroes ! your country is 
calling ! 
Time strikes the hour for the brave 
and the true ! 
Now, while the foremost are fighting and 
falling, 
Fill up the ranks that have opened for 
you ! 

You whom the fathers made free and de- 
fended, 
Stain not the scroll that emblazons 
their fame ! 
You whose fair heritage spotless de- 
scended, 
Leave not your children a birthright 
of shame ! 

Stay not for questions while Freedom 
stands gasping ! 
Wait not till Honor lies wrapped in 
his pall ! 
Brief the lips' meeting be, swift the 
hands' clasping, — 
"Off for the wars ! " is enough for 
them all ! 

Break from the arms that would fondly 
caress you ! 
Hark ! 't is the bugle-blast, sabres are 
drawn ! 
Mothers shall pray for you, fathers shall 
bless you, 
Maidens shall weep for you when you 
are gone ! 

Never or now ! cries the blood of a na- 
tion, 
Poured on the turf where the red rose 
should bloom ; 

Now is the day and the hour of salva- 
tion, — 



252 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



Never or now ! peals the trumpet of 
doom ! 

Never or now ! roars the hoarse-throated 

cannon 
Through the black canopy blotting 

the skies ; 
Never or now ! flaps the shell-blasted 

pennon 
O'er the deep ooze where the Cumberland 

lies ! 

From the foul dens where our brothers 
are dying, 
Aliens and foes in the land of their 
birth, — 
From the rank swamps where our mar- 
tyrs are lying 
Pleading in vain for a handful of 
earth, — 

From the hot plains where they perish 
outnumbered, 
Furrowed and ridged by the battle- 
field's plough, 
Comes the loud summons ; too long you 
have slumbered, 
Hear the last Angel-trump, — Never 

or Now ! 
1862. 

ONE COUNTRY. 

One country ! Treason's writhing asp 
Struck madly at her girdle's clasp, 
And Hatred wrenched with might and 

main 
To rend its welded links in twain, 
While Mammon hugged his golden calf 
Content to take one broken half, 
While thankless churls stood idly by 
And heard unmoved a nation's cry ! 

One country! "Nay," — the tyrant 

crew 
Shrieked from their dens, — "it shall 

be two ! 



Ill bodes to us this monstrous birth, 
That scowls on all the thrones of earth, 
Too broad yon starry cluster shines, 
Too proudly tower the New- World 

pines, 
Tear down the ' banner of the free,' 
And cleave their land from sea to sea ! n 

One country still, though foe and 

"friend" 
Our seamless empire strove to rend ; 
Safe ! safe ! though all the fiends of hell 
Join the red murderers' battle-yell ! 
What though the lifted sabres gleam, 
The cannons frown by shore and stream, — 
The sabres clash, the cannons thrill, 
In wild accord, One country still ! 

One country ! in her stress and strain 
We heard the breaking of a chain ! 
Look where the conquering Nation 

swings 
Her iron flail, — its shivered rings ! 
Forged by the rebels' crimson hand, 
That bolt of wrath shall scourge the 

land 
Till Peace proclaims on sea and shore 
One Country now and evermore 1 

1865. 



GOD SAVE THE FLAG! 

Washed in the blood of the brave and 
the blooming, 
Snatched from the altars of insolent 
foes, 
Burning with star-fires, but never con- 
suming, 
Flash its broad ribbons of lily and 
rose. 

Vainly the prophets of Baal would rend 

it, 
Vainly his worshippers pray for its 

fall; 



IN WAR TIME. 



253 



Thousands have died for it, millions de- 
fend it, 
Emblem of justice and mercy to all : 

Justice that reddens the sky with her 
terrors, 
Mercy that comes with her white- 
handed train, 
Soothing all passions, redeeming all er- 
rors, 
Sheathing the sabre and breaking the 
chain. 

Borne on the deluge of old usurpa- 
tions, 
Drifted our Ark o'er the desolate 
seas, 
Bearing the rainbow of hope to the na- 
tions, 
Torn from the storm-cloud and flung 
to the breeze ! 

God bless the Flag and its loyal de- 
fenders, 
"While its broad folds o'er the battle- 
field wave, 
Till the dim star-wreath rekindle its 
splendors, 
Washed from its stains in the blood 
of the brave ! 

1865. 



HYMN 

AFTER THE EMANCIPATION PROCLA- 
MATION. 

Giver of all that crowns our days, 
With grateful hearts we sing thy praise ; 
Through deep and desert led by thee, 
Our promised land at last we see. 

Ruler of Nations, judge our cause ! 
If we have kept thy holy laws, 



The sons of Belial curse in vain 

The day that rends the captive's chain. 

Thou God of vengeance ! Israel's Lord ! 
Break in their grasp the shield and 

sword, 
And make thy righteous judgments 

known 
Till all thy foes are overthrown ! 

Then, Father, lay thy healing hand 
In mercy on our stricken land ; 
Lead all its wanderers to the fold, 
And be their Shepherd as of old. 

So shall one Nation's song ascend 
To thee, our Ruler, Father, Friend, 
While Heaven's wide arch resounds 

again 
With Peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

1865. 

HYMN 

FOR THE FAIR AT CHICAGO. 

God ! in danger's darkest hour, 

In battle's deadliest field, 
Thy name has been our Nation's tower, 

Thy truth her help and shield. 

Our lips should fill the air with praise, 

Nor pay the debt we owe, 
So high above the songs we raise 

The floods of mercy flow. 

Yet thou wilt hear the prayer we 
speak, 

The song of praise we sing, — 
Thy children, who thine altar seek 

Their grateful gifts to bring. 

Thine altar is the sufferer's bed, 

The home of woe and pain, 
The soldier's turfy pillow, red 

With battle's crimson rain. 



254 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



No smoke of burning stains the air, 

No incense-clouds arise ; 
Thy peaceful servants, Lord, prepare 

A bloodless sacrifice. 

Lo ! for our wounded brothers' need, 
We bear the wine and oil ; 



For us they faint, for us they bleed, 
For them our gracious toil ! 

Father, bless the gifts we bring ! 

Cause thou thy face to shine, 
Till every nation owns her King, 

And all the earth is thine. 
1866. 



SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL. 



255 



SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL. 



AMERICA TO RUSSIA. 

AUGUST 5, 1866. 

READ BY HON. G. V. FOX AT A DINNER GIVEN 
TO THE MISSION FROM THE UNITED STATES, 
8T. PETERSBURG. 

Though watery deserts hold apart 
The worlds of East and West, 

Still beats the selfsame human heart 
In each proud Nation's breast. 

Our floating turret tempts the main 
And dares the howling blast 

To clasp more close the golden chain 
That long has bound them fast. 

In vain the gales of ocean sweep, 

In vain the billows roar 
That chafe the wild and stormy steep 

Of storied Elsinore. 

She comes ! She comes ! her banners 
dip 

In Neva's flashing tide, 
With greetings on her cannon's lip, 

The storm-god's iron bride I 

Peace garlands with the olive-bough 

Her thunder-bearing tower, 
And plants before her cleaving prow 

The sea-foam's milk-white flower. 

No prairies heaped their garnered store 

To fill her sunless hold, 
Not rich Nevada's gleaming ore 

Its hidden caves infold, 



But lightly as the sea-bird swings 
She floats the depths above, 

A breath of flame to lend her wings, 
Her freight a people's love ! 

When darkness hid the starry skies 

In war's long winter night, 
One ray still cheered our straining eyes, 

The far-off Northern light 1 

And now the friendly rays return 

From lights that glow afar, 
Those clustered lamps of Heaven that 
burn 

Around the Western Star. 

A nation's love in tears and smiles 

We bear across the sea, 
Neva of the banded isles, 

We moor our hearts in thee t 



WELCOME TO THE GRAND DUKE 
ALEXIS. 

MUSIC HALL, DECEMBEE 9, 1871. 

SUNG TO THE RUSSIAN NATIONAL AIR BY THiC 
CHILDREN OF THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS. 

Shadowed so long by the storm-cloud 
of danger, 
Thou whom the prayers of an empire 
defend, 
Welcome, thrice welcome ! but not as a 
stranger, 
Come to the nation that calls thee it* 
friend 1 



256 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



Bleak are our shores with the blasts of 
December, 
Fettered and chill is the rivulet's flow ; 
Throbbing and warm are the hearts that 
remember 
"Who was our friend when the world 
was our foe. 

Look on the lips that are smiling to greet 
thee, 
See the fresh flowers that a people has 
strewn : 
Count them thy sisters and brothers 
that meet thee ; 
Guest of the Nation, her heart is 
thine own ! 

Fires of the North, in eternal commun- 
ion, 
Blend your broad flashes with even- 
ing's bright star ! 
God bless the Empire that loves the 
Great Union ; 
Strength to her people ! Long life to 
the Czar! 



AT THE BANQUET TO THE GRAND 
DUKE ALEXIS. 

DECEMBER 9, 1871. 

One word to the guest we have gathered 

to greet ! 
The echoes are longing that word to 

repeat, — 
It springs to the lips that are waiting to 

part, 
For its syllables spell themselves first in 

the heart. 



Its accents may vary, its sound may be 
strange, 

But it bears a kind message that noth- 
ing can change ; 



The dwellers by Neva its meaning can 

tell, 
For the smile, its interpreter, shows it 

fullwelL 

That word ! How it gladdened the Pil- 
grim of yore, 

As he stood in the snow on the desolate 
shore ! 

"When the shout of the Sagamore startled 
his ear 

In the phrase of the Saxon, 't was music 
to hear ! 

Ah, little could Samoset offer our sire, — 
The cabin, the corn-cake, the seat by 

the fire ; 
He had nothing to give, — the poor lord 

of the land, — 
But he gave him a "Welcome, — his 

heart in his hand ! 

The tribe of the Sachem has melted 
away, 

But the word that he spoke is remem- 
bered to-day, 

And the page that is red with the record 
of shame 

The tear-drops have whitened round 
Samoset's name. 

The word that he spoke to the Pilgrim 

of old 
May sound like a tale that has often 

been told ; 
But the welcome we speak is as fresh as 

the dew, — 
As the kiss of a lover, that always is new I 

Ay, Guest .of the Nation ! each roof is 
thine own 

Through all the broad continent's star- 
bannered zone ; 

From the shore where the curtain of 
morn is uprolled. 



SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL. 



257 



To the billows that flow through the 
gateway of gold. 

The snow-crested mountains are calling 

aloud ; 
Nevada to Ural speaks out of the cloud, 
And Shasta shouts forth, from his throne 

in the sky, 
To the storm-splintered summits, the 

peaks of Altai ! 

You must leave him, they say, till the 

summer is green ! 
Both shores are his home, though the 

waves roll between ; 
And then we '11 return him, with thanks 

for the same, 
As fresh and as smiling and tall as he 

came. 

But ours is the region of Arctic delight ; 

We can show him Auroras and pole- 
stars by night ; 

There 's a Muscovy sting in the ice-tem- 
pered air, 

And our firesides are warm and our 
maidens are fair. 

The flowers are full-blown in the gar- 
landed hall, — 

They will bloom round his footsteps 
wherever they fall ; 

For the splendors of youth and the sun- 
shine they bring 

Make the roses believe 't is the sum- 
mons of Spring. 

One word of our language he needs must 

know well, 
But another remains that is harder to 

spell ; 
We shall speak it so ill, if he wishes to 

learn 
How we ntter Farewell, he will have to 

return ! 



AT THE BANQUET TO THE CHINESE 
EMBASSY. 

AUGUST 21, 1868. 

Brothers, whom we may not reach 
Through the veil of alien speech, 
Welcome ! welcome ! eyes can tell 
What the lips in vain would spell, — <■ 
Words that hearts can understand. 
Brothers from the Flowery Land ! 

We, the evening's latest born, 
Hail the children of the morn ! 
We, the new creation's birth, 
Greet the lords of ancient earth, 
From their storied walls and towers 
Wandering to these tents of ours ! 

Land of wonders, fair Cathay, 

Who long hast shunned the staring day, 

Hid in mists of poet's dreams 

By thy blue and yellow streams, — 

Let us thy shadowed form behold, — 

Teach us as thou didst of old. 

Knowledge dwells with length of days ; 
Wisdom walks in ancient ways ; 
Thine the compass that could guide 
A nation o'er the stormy tide, 
Scourged by passions, doubts, and fears, 
Safe through thrice a thousand years ! 

Looking from thy turrets gray 
Thou hast seen the world's decay, — 
Egypt drowning in her sands, — 
Athens rent by robbers' hands, — 
Rome, the w 7 ild barbarian's prey, 
Like a storm-cloud swept away : 

Looking from thy turrets gray 
Still we see thee. Where are they ? 
And lo ! a new-born nation waits, 
Sitting at the golden gates 
That glitter by the sunset sea, — 
Waits with outspread arms for thee I 



258 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



Open wide, ye gates of gold, 
To the Dragon's banner-fold ! 
Builders of the mighty wall, 
Bid your mountain barriers fall ! 
So may the girdle of the sun 
Bind the East and West in one, 

Till Mount Shasta's breezes fan 
The snowy peaks of Ta Sieue-Shan, 
Till Erie blends its waters blue 
With the waves of Tung-Ting-Hu, - 
Till deep Missouri lends its flow 
To swell the rushing Hoang-Ho ! 



AT THE BANQUET TO THE JAPANESE 
EMBASSY. 

AUGUST 2, 1872. 

We welcome you, Lords of the Land of 
the Sun ! 

The voice of the many sounds feebly 
through one ; 

Ah ! would 't were a voice of more mu- 
sical tone, 

But the dog-star is here, and the song- 
birds have flown. 

And what shall I sing that can cheat you 
of smiles, 

Ye heralds of peace from the Orient 
isles ? 

If only the Jubilee — Why did you 
wait ? 

You are welcome, but oh ! you 're a lit- 
tle too late ! 

We have greeted our brothers of Ireland 
and France, 

Round the fiddle of Strauss we have 
joined in the dance, 

We have lagered Herr Saro, that fine- 
looking man, 

And glorified Godfrey, whose name it is 
Dan. 



What a pity ! we 've missed it and you 've 

missed it too, 
We had a day ready and waiting for you ; 
We 'd have shown you — provided, of 

course, you had come — 
You 'd have heard — no, you would n't, 

because it was dumb. 

And then the great organ ! The chorus's 

shout ! 
Like the mixture teetotalers call, " Cold 

without " — . 
A mingling of elements, strong, but not 

sweet ; 
And the drum, just referred to, that 

"couldn't be beat." 

The shrines of our pilgrims are not like 

your own, 
Where white Fusiyama lifts proudly its 

cone, 
(The snow-mantled mountain we see on 

the fan 
That cools our hot cheeks with a breeze 

from Japan.) 

But ours the wide temple where worship 

is free 
As the wind of the prairie, the wave of 

the sea ; 
You may build your own altar wherever 

you will, 
For the roof of that temple is over you 

still. 

One dome overarches the star-bannered 

shore ; 
You may enter the Pope's or the Puri= 

tan's door, 
Or pass with the Buddhist his gateway 

of bronze, 
For a priest is but Man, be he bishop or 

bonze. 

And the lesson we teacix with the sword 
and the pen 



SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAEEWELL. 



259 



Is to all of God's children, " We also are 

men ! 
If you wrong us we smart, if you prick 

us we bleed, 
If you love us, no quarrel with color or 

creed ! " 

You '11 find us a well-meaning, free- 
spoken crowd, 

Good-natured enough, but a little too 
loud, — 

To be sure there is always a bit of a row 

When we choose our Tycoon, and espe- 
cially now. 

You '11 take it all calmly, — we want 

you to see 
What a peaceable fight such a contest 

can be, 
And of one thing be certain, however it 

ends, 
You will find that our voters have chosen 

your friends. 

If the horse that stands saddled is first 

in the race, 
You will greet your old friend with the 

weed in his face, 
And if the white hat and the White 

House agree, 
You '11 find H. G. really as loving as he. 

But 0, what a pity — once more I must 

say — 
That we could not have joined in a 

"Japanese day" ! 
Such greeting we give you to-night as 

we can ; 
Long life to our brothers and friends of 

Japan ! 

The Lord of the mountain looks down 

from his crest 
As the banner of morning unfurls in the 

West; 



The Eagle was always the friend of the 

Sun ; 
You are welcome ! — The song of the 

cage-bird is done. 



BRYANT'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY. 

NOVEMBER 3, 1S64. 

even-handed Nature ! we confess 
This life that men so honor, love, and 

bless 
Has filled thine olden measure. Not the 

less 

We count the precious seasons that re- 
main ; 
Strike not the level of the golden grain, 
But heap it high with years, that earth 
may gain 

What heaven can lose, — for heaven is 

rich in song : 
Do not all poets, dying, still prolong 
Their broken chants amid the seraph 

throng, 

Where, blind no more, Ionia's bard is 

seen, 
And England's heavenly minstrel sit* 

between 
The Mantuan and the wan-cheeked 

Florentine ? 

— This was fhe first sweet singer in the 

cage 
Of our close-woven life. A new-born 

age 
Claims in his vesper song its heritage : 

Spare us, 0, spare us long our heart's 

desire ! 
Moloch, who calls our children through 

the fire, 
Leaves us the gentle master of the lyre. 



260 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



We count not on the dial of the sun 
The hours, the minutes, that his sands 

have run ; 
Eather, as on those flowers that one by 

one 

From earliest dawn their ordered bloom 

display 
Till evening's planet with her guiding 

ray 
Leads in the blind old mother of the 

day, 

We reckon by his songs, each song a 

flower, 
The long, long daylight, numbering 

hour by hour, 
Each breathing sweetness like a bridal 

bswer. 

His morning glory shall we e'er forget? 
His noontide's full-blown lily coronet? 
His evening primrose has not opened 
yet; 

Nay, even if creeping Time should hide 

the skies 
In midnight from his century-laden 

eyes, 
Darkened like his who sang of Paradise, 

Would not some hidden song-bud open 

bright 
As the resplendent cactus of the night 
That floods the gloom with fragrance 

and with light ? 

— How can we praise the verse whose 

musie flows 
With solemn cadence and majestic close, 
Pure as the dew that filters through the 

rose? 

How shall we thank him that in evil 
days 



He faltered never, — nor for blame, nor 

praise, 
Nor hire, nor party, shamed his earlier 

lays? 

But as his boyhood was of manliest hue, 
So to his youth his manly years were 

true, 
All dyed in royal purple through and 

through ! 

He for whose touch the lyre of Heaven 

is strung 
Needs not the flattering toil of mortal 

tongue : 
Let not the singer grieve to die unsung ! 

Marbles forget their message to man- 
kind : 
In his own verse the poet still we find, 
In his own page his memory lives en- 
shrined, 

As in their amber sweets the smothered 
bees, — 

As the fair cedar, fallen before the 
breeze, 

Lies self-embalmed amidst the moulder- 
ing trees. 

— Poets, like youngest children, never 

grow 
Out of their mother's fondness. Nature 

so 
Holds their soft hands, and will not let 

them go, 

Till at the last they track with even feet 
Her rhythmic footsteps, and their pulses 

beat 
Twinned with her pulses, and their lips 

repeat 

The secrets she has told them, as their 
own : 



SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL. 



261 



Thus is the inmost soul of Nature known, 
And the rapt minstrel shares her awful 
throne ! 

lover of her mountains and her woods, 
Her bridal chamber's leafy solitudes, 
Where Love himself with tremulous 
step intrudes, 

Her snows fall harmless on thy sacred 

fire: 
Far be the day that claims thy sounding 

lyre 
To join the music of the angel choir ! 

Yet, since life's amplest measure must 

be filled, 
Since throbbing hearts must be forever 

stilled, 
And all must fade that evening sunsets 

gild, 

Grant, Father, ere he close the mortal 

eyes 
That see a Nation's reeking sacrifice, 
Its smoke may vanish from these black- 
ened skies ! 

Then, when his summons comes, since 
come it must, 

And, looking heavenward with unfalter- 
ing trust, 

He wraps his drapery round him for the 
dust, 

His last fond glance will show him o'er 

his head 
The Northern fires beyond the zenith 

spread 
In lambent glory, blue and white and 

red, — 

The Southern cross without its bleeding 
load, 



The milky way of peace all freshly 

strowed, 
And every white-throned star fixed in 

its lost abode ! 



AT A DINNER TO GENERAL GRANT. 

JULY 31, 1865. 

When treason first began the strife 

That crimsoned sea and shore, 
The Nation poured her hoarded life 

On Freedom's threshing-floor ; 
From field and prairie, east and west, 

From coast and hill and plain, 
The sheaves of ripening manhood pressed 

Thick as the bearded grain. 

Rich was the harvest ; souls as true 

As ever battle tried ; 
But fiercer still the conflict grew, 

The floor of death more wide ; 
Ah, who forgets that dreadful day 

Whose blot of grief and shame 
Four bitter years scarce wash away 

In seas of blood and flame ? 

Vain, vain the Nation's lofty boasts,— 

Vain all her sacrifice ! 
1 ' Give me a man to lead my hosts, 

God in heaven ! " she cries. 
While Battle whirls his crushing flail, 

And plies his winnowing fan, — 
Thick flies the chaff on every gale, — 

She cannot find her man ! 

Bravely they fought who failed to win, — 

Our leaders battle-scarred, — 
Fighting the hosts of hell and sin, 

But devils die always hard ! 
Blame not the broken tools of God 

That helped our sorest needs ; 
Through paths that martyr feet have trod 

The conqueror's steps he leads. 



262 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



But now the heavens grow black with 
doubt, 
The ravens fill the sky, 
"Friends" plot within, foes storm with- 
out, 
Hark, — that despairing cry, 
" "Where is the heart, the hand, the 
brain 
To dare, to do, to plan ? " 
The bleeding Nation shrieks in vain, — 
She has not found her man ! 

A little echo stirs the air, — 

Some tale, whate'er it be, 
Of rebels routed in their lair 

Along the Tennessee. 
The little echo spreads and grows, 

And soon the trump of Fame 
Had taught the Nation's friends and 
foes 

The "man on horseback " 's name. 

So well his warlike wooing sped, 

No fortress might resist 
His billets-doux of lisping lead, 

The bayonets in his fist, — 
With kisses from his cannons' mouth 

He made his passion known 
Till Vicksburg, vestal of the South, 

Unbound her virgin zone. 

And still where'er his banners led 

He conquered as he came, 
The trembling hosts of treason fled 

Before his breath of flame, 
And Fame's still gathering echoes grew 

Till high o'er Richmond's towers 
The starry fold of Freedom flew, 

And all the land was ours. 

Welcome from fields where valor fought 
To feasts where pleasure waits ; 

A Nation gives you smiles unbought 
At all her opening gates 1 



Forgive us when we press your hand, - 
Your war-worn features scan, — 

God sent you to a bleeding land ; 
Our Nation found its man I 



AT A DINNER TO ADMIRAL FARRAGUT. 

JULY 6, 1865. 

Now, smiling friends and shipmates all, 

Since half our battle 's won, 
A bioadside for our Admiral ! 

— Load every crystal gun ! 
Stand ready till I give the word, - - 

— You won't have time to tire, — - 
And when that glorious name is heard, 

Then hip ! hurrah ! and fire ! 

Bow foremost sinks the rebel craft, — 

Our eyes not sadly turn 
And see the pirates huddling aft 

To drop their raft astern ; 
Soon o'er the sea-worm's destined prey 

The lifted wave shall close, — 
So perish from the face of day 

All Freedom's banded foes ! 

But ah ! what splendors fire the sky I 

What glories greet the morn ! 
The storm-tost banner streams on high 

Its heavenly hues new-born ! 
Its red fresh dyed in heroes' blood, 

Its peaceful white more pure, 
To float unstained o'er field and flood 

While earth and seas endure ! 

All shapes before the driving blast 

Must glide from mortal view ; 
Black roll the billows of the past 

Behind the present's blue, 
Fast, fast, are lessening in the light 

The names of high renown, — 
Van Tromp's proud besom fades from 
sight, 

And Nelson 's half hull down ! 



SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL. 



263 



Scarce one tall frigate walks the sea 

Or skirts the safer shores 
Of all that bore to victory 

Our stout old Commodores ; 
Hull, Bainbridge, Porter, — where are 
they? 

The waves their answer roll, 
" Still bright in memory's sunset ray, — 

God rest each gallant soul ! " 

A brighter name must dim their light 

With more than noontide ray, 
The Sea- King of the " River Fight," 

The Conqueror of the Bay, — 
Now then the broadside ! cheer on cheer 

To greet him safe on shore ! 
Health, peace, and many a bloodless year 

To fight his battles o'er ! 



A TOAST TO WILKIE COLLINS. 

FEBRUARY 16, 1874. 

The painter's and the poet's fame 
Shed their twinned lustre round his 

name, 
To gild our story-teller's art, 
Where each in turn must play his part. 

What scenes from Wilkie's pencil sprung, 
The minstrel saw but left unsung ! 
What shapes the pen of Collins drew, 
No painter clad in living hue ! 

But on our artist's shadowy screen 
A stranger miracle is seen 
Than priest unveils or pilgrim seeks, — - 
The poem breathes, the picture speaks ! 

And so his double name comes true, 
They christened better than they knew, 
And Art proclaims him twice her son, — 
Painter and poet, both in one 1 



TO H. W. LONGFELLOW. 

BEFORE HIS DEPARTURE FOR EUROPE, 
MAY 27, 1868. 

Our Poet, who has taught the Western 
breeze 

To waft his songs before him o'er the 
seas, 

Will find them wheresoe'er his wan- 
derings reach 

Borne on the spreading tide of English 
speech 
Twin with the rhythmic waves that kiss 
the farthest beach. 

Where shall the singing bird a stranger 

be 
That finds a nest for him in every tree ? 

How shall he travel who can never go 

Where his own voice the echoes do 

not know, 

Where his own garden flowers no longer 

learn to grow ? 

Ah, gentlest soul ! how gracious, how 
benign 

Breathes through our troubled life that 
voice of thine, 

Filled with a sweetness born of hap- 
pier spheres, 

That wins and warms, that kindles, 
softens, cheers, 
That calms the wildest woe and stays 
the bitterest tears ! 

Forgive the simple words that sound 

like praise ; 
The mist before me dims my gilded 

phrase ; 
Our speech at best is half alive and 

cold, 
And save that tenderer moments make 

us bold 
Our whitening lips would close, their 

truest truth untold. 



264 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



We who behold our autumn suu below 

The Scorpion's sign, against the Arch- 
er's bow, 

Know well what parting means of 
friend from friend ; 

After the snows no freshening dews 
descend, 
And what the frost has marred, the sun- 
shine will not mend. 

So we all count the months, the weeks, 

the days, 
That keep thee from us in unwonted 

ways, 
Grudging to alien hearths our widowed 

time ; 
And one has shaped a breath in artless 

rhyme 
That sighs, "We track thee still through 

each remotest clime." 

What wishes, longings, blessings, 

prayers shall be 
The more than golden freight that 

floats with thee ! 
And know, whatever welcome thou 

shalt find, — 
Thou who hast won the hearts of half 

mankind, — 
The proudest, fondest love thou leavest 

still behind ! 



TO CHRISTIAN GOTTFRIED EHREN- 
BERG. 

FOR HIS " JTTBIL.ETTM " AT BERLIN, 
NOVEMBER 5, 1868. 

Thou who hast taught the teachers of 
mankind 
How from the least of things the 
mightiest grow, 
What marvel jealous Nature made thee 
blind, 
Lest man should learn what angels 
long to know ? 



Thou in the flinty rock, the river's flow, 
In the thick-moted sunbeam's sifted 
light 
Hast trained thy downward-pointed tube 
to show 
Worlds within worlds unveiled to mor- 
tal sight, 
Even as the patient watchers of the 
night, — 
The cyclope gleaners of the fruitful 
skies, — 
Show the wide misty way where heaven 
is white 
All paved with suns that daze our 
wondering eyes. 

Far o'er the stormy deep an empire lies, 
Beyond the storied islands of the 
blest, 
That waits to see the lingering da}--star 
rise ; 
The forest-cinctured Eden of the 
West ; 
Whose queen, fair Freedom, twines her 
iron crest 
With leaves from every wreath that 
mortals wear, 
But loves the sober garland ever best 
That Science lends the sage's silvered 
hair ; — 
Science, who makes life's heritage more 
fair, 
Forging for every lock its mastering 
key, 
Filling with life and hope the stagnant 
air, 
Pouring the light of Heaven o'er land 
and sea ! 
From her unsceptred realm we come to 
thee, 
Bearing our slender tribute in our 
hands ; 
Deem it not worthless, humble though 
it be, 
Set by the larger gifts of older lands : 



SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL. 



265 



The smallest fibres weave the strongest 
bands, — 
In narrowest tubes the sovereign nerves 
are spun, — 
A little cord along the deep sea-sands 
Makes the live thought of severed na- 
tions one : 
Thy fame has journeyed westering with 
the sun, 
Prairies and lone sierras know thy 
name 
And the long day of service nobly done 
That crowns thy darkened evening 
with its flame ! 

One with the grateful world, we own thy 
claim, — 
Nay, rather claim our right to join the 
throng 



Who come with varied tongues, but 
hearts the same, 
To hail thy festal morn with smiles 
and song ; 
Ah, happy they to whom the joys be- 
long 
Of peaceful triumphs that can never die 
From History's record, — not of gilded 
wrong, 
But golden truths that while the 
world goes by 
With all its empty pageant, blazoned 
high 
Around the Master's name forever 
shine ! 
So shines thy name illumined in th« 
sky, — 
Sucli joys, such triumphs, such re- 
membrance thine 1 



266 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



MEMORIAL VERSES. 



FOR THE SERVICES IN MEMORY OF 
ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 

CITY OF BOSTON, JUNE 1, 1865. 

Choral: Luther's "Judgment Hymn." 

thou of soul and sense and breath, 

The ever-present Giver, 
Unto thy mighty Angel, Death, 

All flesh thou dost deliver ; 
"What most we cherish we resign, 
For life and death alike are thine, 

Who reignest Lord forever ! 

Our hearts lie buried in the dust 
With him so true and tender, 

The patriot's stay, the people's trust, 
The shield of the offender ; 

Yet every murmuring voice is still, 

As, bowing to thy sovereign will, 
Our best-loved we surrender. 

Dear Lord, with pitying eye behold 

This martyr generation, 
Which thou, through trials manifold, 

Art showing thy salvation ! 
let the blood by murder spilt 
Wash out thy stricken children's guilt 

And sanctify our nation ! 

Be thou thy orphaned Israel's friend, 
Forsake thy people never, 

In One our broken Many blend, 
That none again may sever ! 

Hear us, Father, while we raise 

With trembling lips our song of praise, 
And bless thy name forever ! 



FOR THE COMMEMORATION SER- 
VICES. 

CAMBRIDGE, JULY 21, 1865. 

Four summers coined their golden light 
in leaves, 
Four wasteful autumns flung them to 
the gale, 
Four winters wore the shroud the tem- 
pest weaves, 
The fourth wan April weeps o'er hill 
and vale ; 

And still the war-clouds scowl on sea 
and land, 
With the red gleams of battle staining 
through, 
When lo ! as parted by an angel's 
hand, 
They open, and the heavens again are 
blue ! 

Which is the dream, the present or the 
past ? 
The night of anguish or the joyous 
morn ? 
The long, long years with horrors over- 
cast, 
Or the sweet promise of the day new- 
born ? 

Tell us, father, as thine arms infold 
Thy belted first-born in their fast un- 
brace, 
Murmuring the prayer the patriarch 
breathed of old, — 
" Now let me die, for I have seen t>y 
face ! " 



MEMORIAL VERSES. 



267 



Tell us, mother, — nay, thou canst 
not speak, 
But thy fond eyes shall answer, 
brimmed with joy, — 
Press thy mute lips against the sun- 
browned cheek, 
Is this a phantom, — thy returning 
boy? 

Tell us, maiden — Ah, what canst 
thou tell 
That Nature's record is not first to 
teach, — 
The open volume all can read so well, 
With its twin rose-hued pages full of 
speech ? 

And ye who mourn your dead, — how 
sternly true 
The crushing hour that wrenched their 
lives away, 
Shadowed with sorrow's midnight veil 
for you, 
For them the dawning of immortal 
day! 

Dream-like these years of conflict, not a 
dream ! 
Death, ruin, ashes tell the awful tale, 
Read by the flaming war-track's lurid 
gleam : 
No dream, but truth that turns the 
nations pale ! 

For on the pillar raised by martyr 
hands 
Burns the rekindled beacon of the 
right, 
Sowing its seeds of fire o'er all the 
lands, — 
Thrones look a century older in its 
light ! 

Rome had her triumphs ; round the con- 
queror's car 



The ensigns waved, the brazen clar- 
ions blew, 
And o'er the reeking spoils of bandit 
war 

With outspread wings the cruel eagles 
flew ; 

Arms, treasures, captives, kings in clank- 
ing chains 
Urged on by trampling cohorts bronzed 
and scarred, 
And wild-eyed wonders snared on Lib- 
yan plains, 
Lion and ostrich and camelopard. 

Vain all that praetors clutched, that 
consuls brought 
When Rome's returning legions 
crowned their lord ; 
Less than the least brave deed these 
hands have wrought, 
We clasp, un clinching from the bloody 
sword. 

Theirs was the mighty work that seers 
foretold ; 
They know not half their glorious toil 
has won, 
For this is Heaven's same battle, — 
joined of old 
When Athens fought for us at Mara- 
thon ! 

— Behold a vision none hath under- 
stood ! 
The breaking of the Apocalyptic seal ; 
Twice rings the summons. — Hail and 
fire and blood ! 
Then the third angel blows his trum- 
pet-peal. 

Loud wail the dwellers on the myrtled 
coasts, 
The green savannas swell the mad- 
dened cry, 



268 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS, 



And with a yell from all the demon hosts 
Falls the great star called Wormwood 
from the sky ! 

Bitter it mingles with the poisoned flow 
Of the warm rivers winding to the 
shore, 
Thousands must drink the waves of 
death and woe, 
But the star Wormwood stains the 
heavens no more ! 

Peace smiles at last ; the Nation calls 
her sons 
To sheathe the sword ; her battle-flag 
she furls, 
Speaks in glad thunders from unshotted 
guns, 
No terror shrouded in the smoke- 
wreath's curls. 

ye that fought for Freedom, living, 
dead, 
One sacred host of God's anointed 
Queen, 
For every holy drop your veins have shed 
We breathe a welcome to our bowers 
of green ! 

Welcome, ye living ! from the foemans 
gripe 
Your country's banner it was yours 
to wrest, — 
Ah, many a forehead shows the banner- 
stripe, 
And stars, once crimson, hallow many 
a breast. 

And ye, pale heroes, who from glory's 
bed 
Mark when your old battalions form 
in line, 
Move in their marching ranks with 
noiseless tread, 
And shape unheard the evening coun- 
tersign, 



Come with your comrades, the returning 
brave ; 
Shoulder to shoulder they await you 
here ; 
These lent the life their martyr-brothers 
gave, — 
Living and dead alike forever dear ! 



EDWARD EVERETT. 

"our first citizen." 1 

Winter's cold drift lies glistening o'er 
his breast ; 
For him no spring shall bid the leaf 
unfold : 
What Love could speak, by sudden grief 
oppressed, 
What swiftly summoned Memory tell, 
is told. 

Even as the bells, in one consenting 
chime, 
Filled with their sweet vibrations all 
the air, 
So joined all voices, in that mournful 
time, 
His genius, wisdom, virtues, to de- 
clare. 

What place is left for words of measured 
praise, 
Till calm-eyed History, with her iron 
pen, 
Grooves in the unchanging rock the 
final phrase 
That shapes his image in the souls of 
men ? 

Yet while the echoes still repeat his 
name, 
While countless tongues his full-orbed 
life rehearse, 

1 Read at the meeting of the Massachusetta 
Historical Society, January 30, 1865. 



MEMORIAL VERSES. 



269 



Love, by his beating pulses taught, will 
claim 
The breath of song, the tuneful throb 
of verse, — 

Verse that, in ever-changing ebb and 
flow, 
Moves, like the laboring heart, with 
rush and rest, 
Or swings in solemn cadence, sad and 
slow, 
Like the tired heaving of a grief- worn 
breast. 

— This was a mind so rounded, so com- 
plete ; 
No partial gift of Xature in excess ; 
That, like a single stream where many 
meet, 
Each separate talent counted some- 
thing less. 

A little hillock, if it lonely stand, 
Holds o'er the fields an undisputed 
reign ; 
While the broad summit of the table- 
land 
Seems with its belt of clouds a level 
plain. 

Servant of all his powers, that faithful 
slave, 
Unsleeping Memory, strengthening 
with his toils, 
To every ruder task his shoulder gave, 
And loaded every day with golden 
spoils. 

Order, the law of Heaven, was throned 
supreme 
O'er action, instinct, impulse, feeling, 
thought ; 
True as the dial's shadow to the beam, 
Each hour was equal to the charge it 
brought. 



Too large his compass for the nicer skill 
That weighs the world of science grain 
by grain ; 
All realms of knowledge owned the mas- 
tering will 
That claimed the franchise of its 
whole domain. 

Earth, air, sea, sky, the elemental fire, 
Art, history, song, — what meanings 
lie in each 
Found in his cunning hand a stringless 
lyre, 
And poured their mingling music 
through his speech. 

Thence flowed those anthems of our fea- 
tal days, 
Whose ravishing division held apart 
The lips of listening throngs in sweet 
amaze, 
Moved in all breasts the selfsame 
human heart. 

Subdued his accents, as of one who tries 
To press some care, some haunting 
sadness down ; 
His smile half shadow ; and to stranger 
eyes 
The kincdv forehead wore an iron 
crown. 

He was not armed to wrestle with the 
storm, 

To fight for homely truth with vulgar 

power ; 
Grace looked from every feature, shaped 

his form, — 
The rose of Academe, — the perfect 

flower ! 

Such was the stately scholar whom we 
knew 
In those ill days of soul- enslaving 
calm, 



270 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



Before the blast of Northern vengeance 
blew 
Her snow-wreathed pine against the 
Southern palm. 

Ah, God forgive us ! did we hold too 
cheap 
The heart we might have known, but 
would not see, 
And look to find the nation's friend 
asleep 
Through the dread hour of her Geth- 
semane ? 

That wrong is past ; we gave him up to 
Death 
With all a hero's honors round his 
name ; 
As martyrs coin their blood, he coined 
his breath, 
And dimmed the scholar's in the 
patriot's fame. 

So shall we blazon on the shaft we 
raise, — 
Telling our grief, our pride, to un- 
born years, — 
"He who had lived the mark of all 
men's praise 
Died with the tribute of a Nation's 
tears." 



SHAKESPEARE. 

TERCENTENNIAL CELEBRATION. 
April 23, 1864. 

*'Who claims our Shakespeare from 
that realm unknown, 
Beyond the storm-vexed islands of 
the deep, 
Where Genoa's roving mariner was 
blown ? 
Her twofold SaintVday let our Eng- 
land keep ; 



Shall warring aliens share her holy 
task ? " 
The Old World echoes ask. 

land of Shakespeare ! ours with all 
thy past, 
Till these last years that make the 
sea so wide, 
Think not the jar of battle's trumpet- 
blast 
Has dulled our aching sense to joyous 
pride 
In every noble word thy sons bequeathed 
The air our fathers breathed ! 

War- wasted, haggard, panting from the 
strife, 
We turn to other days and far-off 
lands, 
Live o'er in dreams the Poet's faded life, 
Come with fresh lilies in our fevered 
hands 
To wreathe his bust, and scatter purple 
flowers, — 
Not his the need, but ours ! 

We call those poets who are first to 
mark 
Through earth's dull mist the coming 
of the dawn, — 
Who see in twilight's gloom the first 
pale spark, 
While others only note that day is 
gone; 
For him the Lord of light the curtain 
rent 
That veils the firmament. 

The greatest for its greatness is half 
known, 
Stretching beyond our narrow quad- 
rant-lines, — 
As in that world of Nature all outgrown 
Where Calaveras lifts his awful pines, 






MEMORIAL VERSES. 



271 



And cast from Mariposa's mountain- 
wall 
Nevada's cataracts fall. 

Yet heaven's remotest orb is partly ours, 
Throbbing its radiance like a beating 
heart; 
In the wide compass of angelic powers 
The instinct of the blindworm has its 
part; 
So in God's kingliest creature we behold 
The flower our buds infold. 

"With no vain praise we mock the stone- 
carved name 
Stamped once on dust that moved 
with pulse and breath, 
As thinking to enlarge that amplest 
fame 
Whose undimmed glories gild the 
night of death : 
We praise not star or sun ; in these we 
see 
Thee, Father, only thee ! 

Thy gifts are beauty, wisdom, power, 
and love: 
We read, we reverence on this human 
soul, — 
Earth's clearest mirror of the light 
above, — 
Plain as the record on thy prophet's 
scroll, 
When o'er his page the effluent splen- 
dors poured, 
Thine own, ' ' Thus saith the Lord ! " 

This player was a prophet from on high, 
. Thine own elected. Statesman, poet, 

sage, 
For him thy sovereign pleasure passed 
them by; 
Sidney's fair youth, and Raleigh's 
ripened age, 



Spenser's chaste soul, and his imperial 
mind 
Who taught and shamed mankind. 

Therefore we bid our hearts' Te Deum 
rise, 
Nor fear to make thy worship less di- 
vine, 
And hear the shouted choral shake the 
skies, 
Counting all glory, power, and wis- 
dom thine ; 
For thy great gift thy greater name 
adore, 
And praise thee evermore ! 

In this dread hour of Nature's utmost 
need, 
Thanks for these unstained drops of , 
freshening dew! 
0, while our martyrs fall, our heroes 
bleed, 
Keep us to every sweet remembrance 
true, 
Till from this blood-red sunset springs 
new-born 
Our Nation's second morn ! 



IN MEMORY OF JOHN AND ROBERT 
WARE. 

READ AT THE ANNUAL MEETING OF 
THE MASSACHUSETTS MEDICAL SO- 
CIETY, MAY 25, 1864. 

No mystic charm, no mortal art, 

Can bid our loved companions stay ; 
The bands that clasp them to our heart 
Snap in death's frost and fall apart ; 
Like shadows fading with the day, 
They pass away. 

The young are stricken in their pride, 

The old, long tottering, faint and fall; 
Master and scholar, side by side, 



272 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



Through the dark portals silent glide, 
That open in life's mouldering wall 
And close on all. 

Our friend's, our teacher's task was done, 
When Mercy called him from on high ; 
A little cloud had dimmed the sun, 
The saddening hours had just begun, 
And darker days were drawing nigh : 
'T was time to die. 

A whiter soul, a fairer mind, 

A life with purer course and aim, 
A gentler eye, a voice more kind, 
"We may not look on earth to find. 
The love that lingers o'er his name 
Is more than fame. 

These blood-red summers ripen fast ; 

The sons are older than the sires ; 
Ere yet the tree to earth is cast, 
The sapling falls before the blast ; 

Life's ashes keep their covered fires, — 
Its flame expires. 

Struck by the noiseless, viewless foe, 
Whose deadlier breath than shot or 
shell 
Has laid the best and bravest low, 
His boy, all bright in morning's glow, 
That high-souled youth he loved so 
well, 
Untimely fell. 

Yet still he wore his placid smile, 

And, trustful in the cheering creed 
That strives all sorrow to beguile, 
Walked calmly on his way awhile : 
Ah, breast that leans on breaking reed 
Must ever bleed ! 

So they both left us, sire and son, 

With opening leaf, with laden bough : 
The youth whose race was just begun, 
The wearied man whose course was run, 
Its record written on his brow, 
Are brothers now. 



Brothers ! — The music of the sound 
Breathes softly through my closing 
strain ; 
The floor we tread is holy ground, 
Those gentle spirits hovering round, 
While our fair circle joins again 
Its broken chain. 

18G4. 



HUMBOLDT'S BIRTHDAY. 

CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, SEPTEM- 
BER 14, 1869. 

BONAPARTE, AUGUST 15, 1769. — HUM- 
BOLDT, SEPTEMBER 14, 1769. 

Ere yet the warning chimes of midnight 
sound, 
Set back the flaming index of the year, 
Track the swift -shifting seasons in their 
round 
Through fivescore circles of the swing- 
ing sphere. 

Lo, in yon islet of the midland sea 
That cleaves the storm-cloud with its 
snowy crest, 
The embryo-heir of Empires yet to be, 
A month-old babe upon his mother's 
breast. 

Those little hands that soon shall grow 
so strong 
In their rude grasp great thrones shall 
rock and fall, 
Press her soft bosom, while a nursery 
song 
Holds the world's master in its slender 
thrall. 

Look ! a new crescent bends its silver 
bow ; 
A new- lit star has fired the eastern 
sky; 



MEMORIAL VERSES. 



273 



Hark ! by the river where the lindens 
blow 
A waiting household hears an infant's 
cry. 

This, too, a conqueror ! His the vast 
domain s 
"Wider than widest sceptre-shadowed 
lands ; 
Earth, and the weltering kingdom of the 
main 
Laid their broad charters in his royal 
hands. 

His was no taper lit in cloistered cage, 
Its glimmer borrowed from the grove 
or porch ; 

He read the record of the planet's page 
By Etna's glare and Cotopaxi's torch. 

He heard the voices of the pathless 
woods ; 
On the salt steppes he saw the star- 
light shine ; 
He scaled the mountain's windy soli- 
tudes, 
And trod the galleries of the breath- 
less mine. 

For him no fingering of the love-strung 
lyre, 
No problem vague, by torturing school- 
men vexed ; 
He fed no broken altar's dying fire, 
Nor skulked and scowled behind a 
Rabbi's text. 

For God's new truth he claimed the 
kingly robe 
That priestly shoulders counted all 
their own, 
Unrolled the gospel of the storied globe 
And led young Science to her empty 
throne. 



While the round planet on its axle 
spins 
One fruitful year shall boast its double 
birth, 
And show the cradles of its mighty 
twins, 
Master and Servant of the sons of 
earth. 

Which wears the garland that shall never 
fade, 
Sweet with fair memories that can 
never die ? 
Ask not the marbles where their bones 
are laid, 
But bow thine ear to hear thy brothers' 
cry: — 

"Tear up the despot's laurels by the 
root, 
Like mandrakes, shrieking as they 
quit the soil ! 
Feed us no more upon the blood-red 
fruit 
That sucks its crimson from the heart 
of Toil ! 

" We claim the food that fixed our mor- 
tal fate, — 
Bend to our reach the long-forbidden 
tree ! 
The angel frowned at Eden's eastern 
gate, — 
Its western portal is forever free ! 

" Bring the white blossoms of the waning 
year, 
Heap with full hands the peaceful con- 
queror's shrine 
Whose bloodless triumphs cost no suf- 
ferer's tear ! 
Hero of knowledge, be our tribute 
thine 1 " 



274 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



POEM 

AT THE DEDICATION OF THE HALLECK 
MONUMENT, JULY 8, 1869. 

Say not the Poet dies ! 
Though in the dust he lies, 
He cannot forfeit his melodious breath, 

Unsphered by envious death ! 
Life drops the voiceless myriads from 
its roll ; 
Their fate he cannot share, 
Who, in the enchanted air 
Sweet with the lingering strains that 
Echo stole, 
Has left his dearer self, the music of his 
soul ! 

"We o'er his turf may raise 
Our notes of feeble praise, 
And carve with pious care for after 
eyes 
The stone with " Here he lies " ; 
He for himself has built a nobler 
shrine, 
Whose walls of stately rhyme 
Eoll back the tides of time, 
While o'er their gates the gleaming 
tablets shine 
That wear his name inwrought with 
many a golden line ! 

Call not our Poet dead, 
Though on his turf we tread ! 
Green is the wreath their brows so 
long have worn, — 
The minstrels of the morn, 
Who, while the Orient burned with new- 
born flame, 
Caught that celestial fire 
And struck a Nation's lyre ! 
These taught the western winds the 
poet's name ; 
Theirs the first opening buds, the maiden 
flowers of fame ! 



Count not our Poet dead ! 
The stars shall watch his bed, 
The rose of June its fragrant life renew 

His blushing mound to strew, 
And all the tuneful throats of summer 
swell 
With trills as crystal-clear 
As when he wooed the ear 
Of the young muse that haunts each 
wooded dell, 
With songs of that "rough land" he 
loved so long and well ! 

He sleeps ; he cannot die ! 
As evening's long-drawn sigh, 
Lifting the rose-leaves on his peaceful 
mound, 
Spreads all their sweets around, 
So, laden with his song, the breezes 
blow 
From where the rustling sedge 
Frets our rude ocean's edge 
To the smooth sea beyond the peaks 
of snow. 
His soul the air enshrines and leaves but 
dust below ! 



HYMN 

FOR THE CELEBRATION AT THE LAY- 
ING OF THE CORNER-STONE OF HAR- 
VARD MEMORIAL HALL, CAMBRIDGE, 
OCTOBER 6, 1870. 

Not with the anguish of hearts that are 
breaking 
Come we as mourners to weep for out 
dead ; 
Grief in our breasts has grown weary of 
aching, 
Green is the turf where our tears we 
have shed. 

While o'er their marbles the mosses are 
creeping, 



MEMORIAL VERSES. 



275 



Stealing each, name and its legend 
away, » 
Give their proud story to Memory's 
keeping, 

Shrined in the temple we hallow to- 
day. 

Hushed are their battle-fields, ended 
their marches, 
Deaf are their ears to the drum-beat 
of morn, — 
Rise from the sod, ye fair columns and 
arches ! 
Tell their bright deeds to the ages un- 
born ! 

Emblem and legend may fade from the 
portal, 
Keystone- may crumble and pillar may 
fall; 
They were the builders whose work is 
immortal, 
Crowned with the dome that is over 
us all ! 



HYMN 

FOR THE DEDICATION" OF MEMORIAL 
HALL AT CAMBRIDGE, JUNE 23, 1874. 

Where, girt around by savage foes, 
Our nurturing Mother's shelter rose, 
Behold, the lofty temple stands, 
Reared by her children's grateful hands ! 

Firm are the pillars that defy 
The volleyed thunders of the sky ; 
Sweet are the summer wreaths that 

twine 
With bud and flower our martyrs' 

shrine. 

The hues their tattered colors bore 
Fall mingling on the sunlit floor 



Till evening spreads her spangled pall, 
And wraps in shade the storied hall. 

Firm were their hearts in danger's 

hour, 
Sweet was their manhood's morning 

flower, 
Their hopes with rainbow hues were 

bright, — 
How swiftly winged the sudden night * 

Mother ! on thy marble page 
Thy children read, from age to age, 
The mighty word that upward leads 
Through noble thought to nobler deeds. 

Truth, heaven-born Truth, their fear- 
less guide, 
Thy saints have lived, thy heroes 

died ; 
Our love has reared their earthly shrine, 
Their glory be forever thine ! 



HYMN 

AT THE FUNERAL SERVICES OF CHARLES 
SUMNER, APRIL 29, 1S74. 

SUNG BY MALE VOICES TO A NATIONAL AIR OP 
HOLLAND. 

Once more, ye sacred towers, 

Your solemn dirges sound ; 
Strew, loving hands, the April flowers, 

Once more to deck his mound. 

A nation mourns its dead, 

Its sorrowing voices one, 
As Israel's monarch bowed his head 

And cried, " My son ! My son ! " 

Why mourn for him ? — For him 
The welcome angel came 
Ere yet his eye with age was dim 
Or bent his stately frame ; 



276 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



His weapon still was bright, 
His shield was lifted high 
To slay the wrong, to save the right, 
What happier hour to die ? 

Thou orderest all things well j 
Thy servant's work was done ; 



He lived to hear Oppression's knell, 
The shouts for Freedom won. 
Hark ! from the opening skies 
The anthem's echoing swell, — 

"0 mourning Land, lift up thine 
eyes ! 
God reigneth. All is well ! " 



RHYMES OF AN HOUR. 



277 



RHYMES OF AN HOUR. 



ADDRESS 

FOR THE OPENING OF THE FIFTH AVE- 
NUE THEATRE, NEW YOKE, DECEM- 
BER 3, 1373. 

Hang out our banners on the stately 
tower ! 

It dawns at last — the long-expected 
hour ! 

The steep is climbed, the star-lit sum- 
mit won, 

The builder's task, the artist's labor 
done ; 

Before the finished work the herald 
stands, 

And asks the verdict of your lips and 
hands ! 

Shall rosy daybreak make us all for- 
get 

The golden sun that yester-evening 
set? 

Fair was the fabric doomed to pass 
away 

Ere the last headaches born of New 
Year's Day ; 

With blasting breath the fierce destroyer 
came 

And wrapped the victim in his robes of 
flame ; 

The pictured sky w r ith redder morning 
blushed, 

With scorching streams the naiad's foun- 
tain gushed, 

With kindling mountains glowed the 
funeral pyre, 



Forests ablaze and rivers all on fire, — 
The scenes dissolved, the shrivelling cur- 
tain fell, — 
Art spread her wings and sighed a long 
farewell ! 

Mourn o'er the Player's melancholy 

plight, — 
Falstarf in tears, Othello deadly 

white, — 
Poor Romeo reckoning what his doublet 

cost, 
And Juliet whimpering for her dresses 

lost, — 
Their wardrobes burned, their salaries 

all undrawn, 
Their cues cut short, their occupation 

gone ! 

" Lie there in dust," the red- winged 

demon cried, 
"Wreck of the lordly city's hope and 

pride ! " 
Silent they stand, and stare with vacant 

gaze, 
While o'er the embers leaps the fitful 

blaze ; 
When, lo ! a hand, before the startled 

train, 
Writes in the ashes, "It shall rise 

again, — 
Rise and confront its elemental foes ! " — . 
The word was spoken, and the walls 

arose, 
And ere the seasons round their brief 

career 



278 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



The new-born temple waits the unborn 
year. 

Ours was the toil of many a weary 

day 
Your smiles, your plaudits, only can 

repay; 
We are the monarchs of the painted 

scenes, 
You, you alone the real Kings and 

Queens ! 
Lords of the little kingdom where we 

meet, 
We lay our gilded sceptres at your 

feet, 
Place in your grasp our portal's silvered 

keys 
With one brief utterance — We have tried 

to please. 
Tell us, ye Sovereigns of the new do- 
main, 
Are you content — or have we toiled in 

vain ? 

With no irreverent glances look 
around 

The realm you rule, for this is haunted 
ground ! 

Here stalks the Sorcerer, here the Fairy 
trips, 

Here limps the Witch with malice- 
working lips, 

The Graces here their snowy arms en- 
twine, 

Here dwell the fairest sisters of the 
Nine, — 

She who, with jocund voice and twink- 
ling eye, 

Laughs at the brood of follies as thev 

fly; 

She of the dagger and the deadly 
bowl, 

Whose charming horrors thrill the trem- 
bling soul ; 

She who, a truant from celestial spheres, 



In mortal semblance now and then ap 

pears, 
Stealing the fairest earthly shape shd 

can — 
Sontag or Nilsson, Lind or Malibran ; 
With these the spangled houri of the 

dance, — 
What shaft so dangerous as her melting 

glance, 
As poised in air she spurns the earth 

below, 
And points aloft her heavenly-minded 

toe! 

What were our life, with all its rents 

and seams, 
Stripped of its purple robes, our waking 

dreams ? 
The poet's song, the bright romancer's 

page, 
The tinselled shows that cheat us on 

the stage 
Lead all our fancies captive at their will ; 
Three years or threescore, we are chil- 
dren still. 
The little listener on his father's knee, 
With wandering Sindbad ploughs the 

stormy sea, 
With Gotham's sages hears the billows 

roll 
(Illustrious trio of the venturous bowl, 
Too early shipwrecked, for they died too 

soon 
To see their offspring launch the great 

balloon) ; 
Tracks the dark brigand to his moun- 
tain lair, 
Slays the grim giant, saves the lady fair, 
Fights all his country's battles o'er again 
From Bunker's blazing height to 

Lundy's lane; 
Floats with the mighty Captains as 

they sailed 
Before whose flag the flaming red-cross 

paled, 



RHYMES OF AN HOUR. 



279 



And claims the oft-told story of the 

scars 
Scarce yet grown white, that saved the 

stripes and stars ! 

Children of later growth, we love the 

Play, 
We love its heroes, be they grave or gay, 
From squeaking, peppery, devil-defying 

Punch 
To roaring Richard with his camel- 
hunch ; 
Adore its heroines, those immortal 

dames, 
Time's only rivals, whom he never 

tames, 
Whose youth, unchanging, lives while 

thrones decay 
(Age spares the Pyramids — and Deja- 

zet); 
The saucy-aproned, razor-tongued sou- 

brette, 
The blond-haired beauty with the eyes 

of jet, 
The gorgeous Beings whom the viewless 

wires 
Lift to the skies in strontian-crimsoned 

fires, 
And all the wealth of splendor that 

awaits 
The throng that enters those Elysian 

gates. 

See where the hurrying crowd impa- 
tient pours, 

With noise of trampling feet and flap- 
ping doors, 

Streams to the numbered seat each 
pasteboard fits 

And smooths its caudal plumage as it 
sits ; 

Waits while the slow musicians saunter 
in, 

Till the bald leader taps his violin ; 

Till the old overture we know so well, 



Zampa or Magic Flute or William Tell, 

Has done its worst — then hark! the 
tinkling bell ! 

The crash is o'er — the crinkling cur- 
tain furled, 

And lo ! the glories of that brighter 
world ! 

Behold the offspring of the Thespian 

cart, 
This full-grown temple of the magic 

art, 
Where all the conjurors of illusion meet, 
And please us all the more, the more 

they cheat. 
These are the wizards and the witches 

too 
Who win their honest bread by cheat- 
ing you 
With cheeks that drown in artificial 

tears 
And lying skull-caps white with seventy 

years, 
Sweet-tempered matrons changed to 

scolding Kates, 
Maids mild as moonbeams crazed with 

murderous hates, 
Kind, simple souls that stab and slash 

and slay 
And stick at nothing, if it \s in the 

play! 

Would all the world told half as 
harmless lies ! 

Would all its real fools were half as wise 

As he who blinks through dull Dun- 
dreary's eyes ! 

Would all the unhanged bandits of the 
age 

Were like the peaceful ruffians of the 
stage ! 

Would all the cankers wasting town and 
state, 

The mob of rascals, little thieves and 
great, 



280 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



Dealers in watered milk and watered 

stocks, 
Who lead us lambs to pasture on the 

rocks, — 
Shepherds — Jack Sheppards — of their 

city flocks — 
The rings of rogues that rob the luckless 

town, 
Those evil angels creeping up and down 
The Jacob's ladder of the treasury 

stairs, — 
Not stage, but real Turpins and Ma- 

caires, — 
Could doff, like us, their knavery with 

their clothes, 
And find it easy as forgetting oaths ! 

"Welcome, thrice welcome to our vir- 
gin dome, 

The Muses' shrine, the Drama's new- 
found home! 

Here shall the Statesman rest his weary 
brain, 

The worn-out Artist find his wits again ; 

Here Trade forget his ledger and his 
cares, 

And sweet communion mingle Bulls 
and Bears ; 

Here shall the youthful Lover, nestling 
near 

The shrinking maiden, her he holds most 
dear, 

Gaze on the mimic moonlight as it falls 

On painted groves, on sliding canvas 
walls, 

And sigh, " My angel ! What a life of 
bliss 

We two could live in such a world as 
this ! " 

Here shall the tumid pedants of the 
schools, 

The gilded boors, the labor-scorning 
fools, 

The grass-green rustic and the smoke- 
dried cit, 



Feel each in turn the stinging lash of 

wit, 
And as it tingles on some tender part 
Each find a balsam in his neighbor's 

smart ; 
So every folly prove a fresh delight 
As in the pictures of our play to-night. 

Farewell! The Players wait the 
Prompter's call ; 
Friends, lovers, listeners! Welcome 
one and all! 



RIP VAN WINKLE, M.D. 

AN AFTER-DINNER PRESCRIPTION TAKEN 
BY THE MASSACHUSETTS MEDICAL 
SOCIETY, AT THEIR MEETING HELD 
MAY 25, 1870. 

CANTO FIRST. 

Old Rip Van Winkle had a grandson, 

Rip, 
Of the paternal block a genuine chip ; 
A lazy, sleepy, curious kind of chap ; 
He, like his grandsire, took a mighty 

nap, 
Whereof the story I propose to tell 
In two brief cantos, if you listen well. 

The times were hard when Rip to man- 
hood grew ; 
They always will be when there 's work 

to do ; 
He tried at farming — found it rather 

slow — 
And then at teaching — what he did n't 

know ; 
Then took to hanging round the tavern 

bars, 
To frequent toddies and long-nine cigars, 
Till Dame Van Winkle, out of patience, 

vexed 
With preaching homilies, having foj 

their text 



RHY^S OF AN HOUR. 



281 



A mop, a "broomstick — aught that might 

avail 
To point a moral or adorn a tale, 
Exclaimed, " I have it ! Now then, 

Mr. V. ! 
He 's good for something — make him 

an M. D. ! " 

The die was cast ; the youngster was 

content ; 
They packed his shirts and stockings, 

and he went. 
How hard he studied it were vain to 

tell; 
He drowsed through "Wistar, nodded over 

Bell, 
Slept sound with Cooper, snored aloud 

on Good ; 
Heard heaps of lectures — doubtless un- 
derstood — 
A constant listener, for he did not fail 
To carve his name on every bench and 

rail. 

Months grew to years ; at last he counted 

three, 
And Rip Van "Winkle found himself M. D. 
Illustrious title ! in a gilded frame 
He set the sheepskin with his Latin 

name, 
Ripum Van Winklum, quem we — 

sciMUS — know 
Idoneum. esse — to do so and so ; 
He hired an office ; soon its walls dis- 
played 
His new diploma and his stock in trade, 
A mighty arsenal to subdue disease, 
Of various names, whereof I mention 

these : 
Lancets and bougies, great and little 

squirt, 
Rhubarb and Senna, Snakeroot, Thor- 

oughwort, 
Ant. Tart., Vin. Colch., Pil. Cochise, 

and Black Drop, 



Tinctures of Opium, Gentian, Henbane, 

Hop, 
Pulv. Ipecacuanha?, which for lack 
Of breath to utter men call Ipecac, 
Camphor and Kino, Turpentine, Tolu, 
Cubebs, " Copeevy," Vitriol — white 

and blue, 
Fennel and Flaxseed, Slippery Elm and 

Squill, 
And roots of Sassafras, and "Sassaf- 

rill," 
Brandy — for colics — Pinkroot, death 

on worms — 
Valerian, calmer of hysteric squirms, 
Musk, Assafcetida, the resinous gum 
Named from its odor — well, it does 

smell some — 
Jalap, that works not wisely, but too 

well, 
Ten pounds of Bark and six of CalomeL 

For outward griefs he had an ample 
store, 

Some twenty jars and gallipots, or more ; 

Ceratum, simplex — housewives oft com- 
pile 

The same at home, and call it "wax 
and ile" ; 

Ungucntum Resinosum — change its 
name, 

The "drawing salve" of many an an- 
cient dame ; 

Argenti Nitras, also Spanish flies, 

Whose virtue makes the water-bladders 
rise — 

(Some say that spread upon a toper's 
skin 

They draw no water, only rum or gin) — 

Leeches, sweet vermin ! don't they 
charm the sick ? 

And Sticking-plaster — how it hates to 
stick ! 

Emplastrum Ferri — ditto Picis, Pitch : 

"Washes and Powders, Brimstone for the 

which, 

v 



282 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



Scabies or Psora, is thy chosen name 
Since Hahnemann's goose-quill scratched 

thee into fame, 
Proved thee the source of every name- 
less ill, 
Whose sole specific is a moonshine pill, 
Till saucy Science, with a quiet grin, 
Held up the Acarus, crawling on a 
pin? 

— Mountains have labored and have 

brought forth mice : 

The Dutchman's theory hatched a brood 
of — twice 

I 've wellnigh said them — words unfit- 
ting quite 

For these fair precincts and for ears 
polite. 

The surest foot may chance at last to 

slip, 
And so at length it proved with Doctor 

Rip. 
One full-sized bottle stood upon the shelf 
Which held the medicine that he took 

himself ; 
Whate'er the reason, it must be confessed 
He filled that bottle oftener than the 

rest ; 
What drug it held I don't presume to 

know — 
The gilded label said "Elixir Pro." 

One day the Doctor found the bottle 

full, 
And, being thirsty, took a vigorous pull, 
Put back the "Elixir" where 'twas 

always found, 
And had old Dobbin saddled and brought 

round. 

— You know those old-time rhubarb- 

colored nags 

That carried Doctors and their saddle- 
bags; 

Sagacious beasts ! they stopped at every 
place 



Where blinds were shut — knew every 

patient's case — 
Looked up and thought — the baby 's 

in a fit — 
That won't last long — he '11 soon be 

through with it ; 
But shook their heads before the knock- 

ered door 
Where some old lady told the story 

o'er 
Whose endless stream of tribulation 

flows 
For gastric griefs and peristaltic woes. 

What jack-o'-lantern led him from 

his way, 
And where it led him, it were hard to 

say; 
Enough that wandering many a weary 

mile 
Through paths the mountain sheep trod 

single file, 
O'ercome by feelings such as patients 

know 
Who dose too freely with " Elixir Pro.," 
He tumbl — dismounted, slightly in a 

heap, 
And lay, promiscuous, lapped in balmy 

sleep. 

Night followed night, and day suc- 
ceeded day, 
But snoring still the slumbering Doctor 

lay. 
Poor Dobbin, starving, thought upon 

his stall, 
And straggled homeward, saddle-bags 

and all. 
The village people hunted all around, 
But Rip was missing, — never could be 

found. 
" Drownded," they guessed ; — for more 

than half a year 
The pouts and eels did taste uncommon 

queer ; 



RHYMES OF AN HOUR. 



283 



Borne said of apple-brandy — other some 
Found a strong flavor of New England 
rum. 

— Why can't a fellow hear the fine 

things said 

About a fellow when a fellow 's dead ? 

The best of doctors — so the press de- 
clared — 

A public blessing while his life was 
spared, 

True to his country, bounteous to the 
poor, 

In all things temperate, sober, just, and 
pure ; 

The best of husbands ! echoed Mrs. Van, 

And set her cap to catch another man. 

— So ends this Canto — if it 's quan- 

tum suf. t 
We '11 just stop here and say we 've had 

enough, 
And leave poor Rip to sleep for thirty 

years ; 
I grind the organ — if you lend your ears 
To hear my second Canto, after that 
We '11 send around the monkey with 

the hat. 

CANTO SECOND. 

So thirty years had past — but not a 

word 
In all that time of Rip was ever heard ; 
The world wagged on — it never does 

go back — 
The widow Van was now the widow 

Mac — 
France was an Empire — Andrew J. was 

dead, 
And Abraham L. was reigning in his 

stead. 
Four murderous years had passed in 

savage strife, 
Set still the rebel held his bloody knife. 



— At last one morning — who forgets 
the day 

When the black cloud of war dissolved 
away ? 

The joyous tidings spread o'er land and 
sea, 

Rebellion done for ! Grant has cap- 
tured Lee ! 

Up every flagstaff sprang the Stars and 
Stripes — 

Out rushed the Extras wild with mam- 
moth types — 

Down went the laborer's hod, the school- 
boy's book — 

"Hooraw!" he cried, — "the rebel 
army 's took ! " 

Ah ! what a time ! the folks all mad 
with joy: 

Each fond, pale mother thinking of her 
boy; 

Old gray-haired fathers meeting — Have 
— you — heard ? 

And then a choke — and not another 
word ; 

Sisters all smiling — maidens, not less 
dear, 

In trembling poise between a smile and 
tear ; 

Poor Bridget thinking how she '11 stuff 
the plums 

In that big cake for Johnny when he 
comes ; 

Cripples afoot ; rheumatics on the jump, 

Old girls so loving they could hug the 
pump ; 

Guns going bang ! from every fort and 
ship; 

They banged so loud at last they wak- 
ened Rip. 

I spare the picture, how a man ap- 
pears 

Who 's been asleep a score or two of 
years ; 

You all have seen it to perfection done 



284 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



By Joe "Van Wink — I mean Rip Jeffer- 
son. 

Well, so it was ; old Rip at last came 
back, 

Claimed his old wife — the present 
widow Mac — 

Had his old sign regilded, and began 

To practise physic on the same old plan. 

Some weeks went by — it was not 

long to wait — 
And "please to call " grew frequent on 

the slate. 
He had, in fact, an ancient, mildewed 

air, 
A long gray beard, a plenteous lack of 

hair — 
The musty look that always recommends 
Your good old Doctor to his ailing 

friends. 
— Talk of your science ! after all is said 
There 's nothing like a bare and shiny 

head ; 
Age lends the graces that are sure to 

please ; 
Folks want their Doctors mouldy, like 

their cheese. 

So Rip began to look at people's 

tongues 
And thump their briskets (called it 

"sound their lungs"), 
Brushed up his knowledge smartly as he 

could, 
Read in old Cullen and in Doctor Good. 
The town was healthy ; for a month or 

two 
He gave the sexton little work to do. 

About the time when dog-day heats 

begin, 
The summer's usual maladies set in ; 
With autumn evenings dysentery came, 
And dusky typhoid lit his smouldering 

flame ; 



The blacksmith ailed — the carpenter 
was down, 

And half the children sickened in the 
town. 

The sexton's face grew shorter than be- 
fore — 

The sexton's wife a brand-new bonnet 
wore — 

Things looked quite serious — Death had 
got a grip 

On old and young, in spite of Doctor 
Rip. 

And now the Squire was taken with 

a chill — 
Wife gave " hot-drops " — at night an 

Indian pill ; 
Next morning, feverish — bedtime, get- 
ting worse — 
Out of his head — began to rave and 

curse ; 
The Doctor sent for — double quick he 

came : 
Ant. Tart. gran, duo, and repeat the 

same 
If no et cetera. Third day — nothing 

new ; 
Percussed his thorax till 't was black 

and blue — 
Lung-fever threatening — something of 

the sort — 
Out with the lancet — let him bleed — . 

a quart — 
Ten leeches next — then blisters to his 

side ; 
Ten grains of calomel ; just then he 

died. 

The Deacon next required the Doc- 
tor's care — 
Took cold by sitting in a draught of 

air — 
Pains in the back, but what the matter is 
Not quite so clear, — wife calls it " rheu- 
matiz." 



RHYMES OF AN HOUR. 



285 



Rubs back with flannel — gives him 

something hot — 
"Ah! "says the Deacon, "that goes 

niyh the spot." 
Next day a rigor — "Run, my little 

man, 
And say the Deacon sends for Doctor 

Van." 
The Doctor came — percussion as before, 
Thumping and banging till his ribs were 

sore — 
u Right side the flattest " — then more 

vigorous raps — 
" Fever — that 's certain — pleurisy, 

perhaps. 
A quart of blood will ease the pain, no 

doubt, 
Ten leeches next will help to suck it out, 
Then clap a blister on the painful part — 
Bat first two grains of Antimonium Tart. 
Last, with a dose of cleansing calomel 
Unload the portal system — (that sounds 

well !) " 

But when the selfsame remedies were 

tried, 
As all the village knew, the Squire had 

died; 
The neighbors hinted : " This will never 

do, 
He 's killed the Squire — he '11 kill the 

Deacon too." 

— Now when a doctor's patients are per- 
plexed, 

A consultation comes in order next — 

You know what that is ? In a certain 
place 

Meet certain doctors to discuss a case 

And other matters, such as weather, 
crops, 

Potatoes, pumpkins, lager-beer, and 
hops. 

For what 's the use ? — there 's little to 
be said, 



Nine times in ten your man 's as good as 

dead; 
At best a talk (the secret to disclose) 
Where three men guess and sometimes 

one man knows. 

The counsel summoned came without 

delay — 
Young Doctor Green and shrewd old 

Doctor Gray — 
They heard the story — " Bleed ! " says 

Doctor Green, 
1 ' That 's downright murder ! cut his 

throat, you mean ! 
Leeches ! the reptiles ! "Why, for pity's 

sake, 
Not try an adder or a rattlesnake ? 
Blisters ! Why bless you, they 're against 

the law — 
It 's rank assault and battery if they 

draw ! 
Tartrate of Antimony ! shade of Luke, 
Stomachs turn pale at thought of such 

rebuke ! 
The portal system ! What 's the man 

about ? 
Unload your nonsense ! Calomel's played 

out! 
You 've been asleep — you 'd better sleep 

away 
Till some one calls you." 

" Stop ! " says Doctor Gray — 

"The story is you slept for thirty 
years ; 

With brother Green, I own that it ap- 
pears 

You must have slumbered most amazing 
sound ; 

But sleep once more till thirty years 
come round, 

You '11 find the lancet in its honored 
place, 

Leeches and blisters rescued from dis- 
grace, 



286 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



Your drugs redeemed from fashion's pass- 
ing scorn, 

And counted safe to give to babes un- 
born." 

Poor sleepy Rip, M. M. S. S., M. D., 

A puzzled, serious, saddened man was lie ; 

Home from the Deacon's house he plod- 
ded slow 

And filled one bumper of " Elixir Pro." 

"Good by," he faltered, "Mrs. Van, 
my dear! 

I 'm going to sleep, but wake me once a 
year; 

I don't like bleaching in the frost and 
dew, 

I '11 take the barn, if all the same to you. 

Just once a year — remember ! no mis- 
take ! 

Cry, ' Rip Van "Winkle ! time for you to 
wake ! ' 

Watch for the week in May when lay- 
locks blow, 

For then the Doctors meet, and I must 

go- 
Just once a year the Doctor's worthy 
dame 

Goes to the barn and shouts her hus- 
band's name, 

" Come, Rip Van Winkle ! " (giving him 
a shake) 

" Rip ! Rip Van Winkle ! time for you 
to wake ! 

Laylocks in blossom ! 't is the month of 
May — 

The Doctors' meeting is this blessed day, 

And come what will, you know I heard 
you swear 

You 'd never miss it, but be always 
there ! " 

And so it is, as every year comes round 
Old Rip Van Winkle here is always 
found. 



You '11 quickly know him by his mil- 
dewed air, 

The hayseed sprinkled through his scanty 
hair, 

The lichens growing on his rusty suit — 

I 've seen a toadstool sprouting on his 
boot — 

— Who says I lie ? Does any man pre- 
sume ? — 

Toadstool ? No matter — call it a mush- 
room. 

Where is his seat ? He moves it every 
year; 

But look, you '11 find him — he is always 
here — 

Perhaps you '11 track him by a whiff you 
know — 

A certain flavor of " Elixir Pro." 

Now, then, I give you — as you seem 

to think 
We can give toasts without a drop to 

drink — 
Health to the mighty sleeper — long 

live he ! 
Our brother Rip, M. M. S. S., M. D. ! 

CHANSON WITHOUT MUSIC. 

BY THE PROFESSOR EMERITUS OF DEAD 
AND LIVE LANGUAGES. 

* B K. — Cambridge, 1867. 

You bid me sing, — can I forget 

The classic ode of days gone by, — 
How belle Fifine and jeune Lisette 

Exclaimed, " Anacreon, geron ei " ? 
"Regardez done," those ladies said, — 

"You're getting bald and wrinkled 
too : 
When summer's roses all are shed, 

Love 's nullum ite, voyez-vous 1 " 

In vain ce brave Anacreon's cry, 
" Of Love alone my banjo sings" 



RHYMES OF AN HOUR. 



287 



(Er5ta mounon). " Etiam si, — 
Eh b'en ? " replied the saucy things, — 

" Go find a maid whose hair is gray, 
And strike your lyre, — we sha' n't 
complain ; 

But parce nobis, s'il vous plait, — 
Voila Adolphe ! Voila Eugene ! " 

Ah, jeune Lisette ! All, belle Fifine ! 

Anacreon's lesson all must learn ; 
kairos oxiis ; Spring is green, 
But Acer Hyems waits his turn ! 

I hear you whispering from the dust, 

II Tiens, mon cher, c'est toujours so, — 
The brightest blade grows dim with rust, 

The fairest meadow white with snow ! " 

— You do not mean it ! Not encore ? 

Another string of play day rhymes ? 
You 've heard me — nonne est ? — before, 

Multoties, — more than twenty times ; 
Non possum, — vraiment, — pas du tout, 

I cannot ! I am loath to shirk ; 
But who will listen if I do, 

My memory makes such shocking 
work? 

Ginosko. Scio. Yes, I 'm told 

Some ancients like my rusty lay, 
As Grandpa Noah loved the old 

Red-sandstone march of Jubal's day. 
1 used to carol like the birds, 

But time my wits has quite unfixed, 
Et quoad verba, — for my words, — 

Ciel 1 Eheu ! Whe-ew ! — how they 're 
mixed ! 

Mehercle ! Zeu ! Diable ! how 

My thoughts were dressed when I was 
young, 
But tempus fugit ! see them now 

Half clad in rags of every tongue ! 
philoi, fratres, chers amis ! 

I dare not court the youthful Muse, 
For fear her sharp response should be, 

" Papa Anacreon, please excuse I " 



Adieu ! I 've trod my annual track 

How long ! — let others count the 
miles, — 
And peddled out my rhyming pack 

To friends who always paid in smiles. 
So, laissez-moi ! some youthful wit 

No doubt has wares he wants to show ; 
And I am asking, " Let me sit," 

Dum ille clamat, " Dos pou sto ! " 



FOR THE CENTENNIAL DINNER 

OF THE PROPRIETORS OF BOSTON PIER, 
OR THE LONG WHARF, APRIL 16, 1873. 

Dear friends, we are strangers ; we 
never before 

Have suspected what love to each other 
we bore ; 

But each of us all to his neighbor is dear, 

Whose heart has a throb for our time- 
honored pier. 

As I look on each brother proprietor's 
face, 

I could open my arms in a loving em- 
brace ; 

What wonder that feelings, undreamed 
of so long, 

Should burst all at once in a blossom of 
song! 

While I turn my fond glance on the mon- 
arch of piers, 

Whose throne has stood firm through his 
eightscore of years, 

My thought travels backward and reaches 
the day 

When they drove the first pile on the 
edge of the bay. 

See ! The joiner, the shipwright, the 

smith from his forge, 
The redcoat, who shoulders his gun for 

King George, 



288 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



The shopman, the 'prentice, the boys 

from the lane, 
The parson, the doctor with gold-headed 

cane, 

Come trooping down King Street, where 
now may be seen 

The pulleys and ropes of a mighty ma- 
chine ; 

The weight rises slowly ; it drops with 
a thud ; 

And, lo ! the great timber sinks deep in 
the mud ! 

They are gone, the stout craftsmen that 
hammered the piles, 

And the square-toed old boys in the 
three-cornered tiles ; 

The breeches, the buckles, have faded 
from view, 

And the parson's white wig and the rib- 
bon-tied queue. 

The redcoats have vanished ; the last 

grenadier 
Stepped into the boat from the end of 

our pier ; 
They found that our hills were not easy 

to climb, 
And the order came, ' ' Countermarch, 

double-quick time ! " 

They are gone, friend and foe, — an- 
chored fast at the pier, 

Whence no vessel brings back its pale 
passengers here ; 

But our wharf, like a lily, still floats on 
the flood, 

Its breast in the sunshine, its roots in 
the mud. 

Who — who that has loved it so long 

and so well — 
The flower of his birthright would barter 

or sell ? 



No : pride of the bay, while its ripples 

shall run, 
You shall pass, as an heirloom, from 

father to son ! 

Let me part with the acres my grand- 
father bought, 

With the bonds that my uncle's kind 
legacy brought, 

With my bank-shares, — old " Union," 
whose ten per cent stock 

Stands stiff through the storms as the 
Eddystone rock j 

With my rights (or my wrongs) in the 

"Erie,"— alas! 
With my claims on the mournful and 

"Mutual Mass." ; 
With my " Phil. Wil. and Bait.," with 

my "C. B. andQ."; 
But I never, no never, will sell out of 

you. 

We drink to thy past and thy future to- 
day, 

Strong right arm of Boston, stretched 
out o'er the bay. 

May the winds waft the wealth of all 
nations to thee, 

And thy dividends flow like the waves 
of the sea ! 



A POEM SERVED TO ORDER. 

PHI BETA KAPPA, JUNE 26, 1873c 

The Caliph ordered up his cook, 
And, scowling with a fearful look 
That meant, —We stand no gam- 
mon, — 
" To-morrow, just at two," he said, 
"Hassan, our cook, will lose his head, 
Or serve us up a salmon." 

"Great Sire," the trembling chef replied, 
" Lord of the Earth and all beside, 



EHYMES OF AN HOUR. 



289 



Sun, Moon, and Stars, and so on — " 
(Look in Eothen — there you '11 find 
A list of titles. Never mind, 

I have n't time to go on :) 

"Great Sire," and so forth, thus he 

spoke, 
" Your Highness must intend a joke ; 

It does n't stand to reason 
For one to order salmon brought, 
Unless that fish is sometimes caught, 

And also is in season. 

" Our luck of late is shocking bad, 
In fact, the latest catch we had 

(We kept the matter shady), 
But, hauling in our nets, — alack ! 
We found no salmon, but a sack 

That held your honored Lady ! " 

— " Allah is great ! " the Caliph said, 
" My poor Zuleika, you are dead, 

I once took interest in you." 

— "Perhaps, my Lord, you'd like to 

know 
We cut the lines and let her go." 
— " Allah be praised ! Continue." 

— "It is n't hard one's hook to bait, 
And, squatting down, to watch and wait, 

To see the cork go under ; 
At last suppose you 've got your bite, 
You twitch away with all your might, — 

You 've hooked an eel, by thunder ! " 

The Caliph patted Hassan's head : 
"Slave, thou hast spoken well," he said, 

"And won thy master's favor. 
Yes ; since what happened t' other morn 
The salmon of the Golden Horn 

Might have a doubtful flavor. 

" That last remark about the eel 
Has also justice that we feel 

Quite to our satisfaction. 
To-morrow we dispense with fish, 



And, for the present, if you wish, 
You '11 keep your bulbous fraction." 

" Thanks ! thanks ! " the grateful chej 

replied, 
His nutrient feature showing wide 

The gleam of arches dental : 
" To cut my head off wouldn't pay, 
I find it useful every day, 

As well as ornamental." 



Brothers, I hope you will not fail 
To see the moral of my tale 

And kindly to receive it. 
You know your anniversary pie 
Must have its crust, though hard and 
dry, 

And some prefer to leave it. 

How oft before these youths were born 
I 've fished in Fancy's Golden Horn 

For what the Muse might send me ! 
How gayly then I cast the line, 
When all the morning sky was mine, 

And Hope her flies would lend me ! 

And now I hear our despot's call, 
And come, like Hassan, to the hall, — 

If there 's a slave, I am one, — 
My bait no longer flies, but worms ! 
I 've caught — Lord bless me ! how he 
squirms ! 

An eel, and not a salmon ! 



THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 

READ AT THE MEETING OF THE HAR- 
VARD ALUMNI ASSOCIATION, JUNE 25, 
1873. 

The fount the Spaniard sought in vaim 
Through all the land of flowers 

Leaps glittering from the sandy plain 
Our classic grove embowers ; 



290 



SONGS OF MANY SEASONS. 



Here youth, unchanging, blooms and 
smiles, 

Here dwells eternal spring, 
And warm from Hope's elysian isles 

The winds their perfume bring. 

Here every leaf is in the bud, 

Each singing throat in tune, 
And bright o'er evening's silver flood 

Shines the young crescent moon. 
"What wonder Age forgets his staff 

And lays his glasses down, 
And gray-haired grandsires look and 
laugh 

As when their locks were brown ! 

With ears grown dull and eyes grown 
dim 

They greet the joyous day 
That calls them to the fountain's brim 

To wash their years away. 
"What change has clothed the ancient 
sire 

In sudden youth ? For, lo ! 
The Judge, the Doctor, and the Squire 

Are Jack and Bill and Joe ! 

And be his titles what they will, 

In spite of manhood's claim 
The graybeard is a school-boy still 

And loves his school-boy name ; 
It calms the ruler's stormy breast 

"Whom hurrying care pursues, 
And brings a sense of peace and rest, 

Like slippers after shoes. 

And what are all the prizes won 

To youth's enchanted view ? 
And what is all the man has done 

To what the boy may do ? 
O blessed fount, whose waters flow 

Alike for sire and son, 
That melts our winter's frost and snow 

And makes all ages one ! 



I pledge the sparkling fountain's tide, 

That flings its golden shower 
"With age to fill and youth to guide, 

Still fresh in morning flower ! 
Flow on with ever- widening stream, 

In ever-brightening morn, — 
Our story's pride, our future's dream, 

The hope of times unborn J 



A HYMN OF PEACE. 

SUNG AT THE "JUBILEE," JUNE 15, 
1869, TO THE MUSIC OF KELLER'S 
"AMERICAN HYMN." 

Angel of Peace, thou hast wandered 
too long ! 
Spread thy white wings to the sun- 
shine of love ! 
Come while our voices are blended in 
song, — 
Fly to our ark like the storm-beaten 
dove ! 
Fly to our ark on the wings of the 
dove, — 
Speed o'er the far-sounding billows of 
song, 
Crowned with thine olive-leaf garland 
of love, — 
Angel of Peace, thou hast waited too 
long ! 

Brothers we meet, on this altar of thine 
Mingling the gifts we have gathered 
for thee, 
Sweet with the odors of myrtle and pine, 
Breeze of the prairie and breath of 
the sea, — 
Meadow and mountain and forest and 
sea ! 
Sweet is the fragrance of myrtle and 
pine, 
Sweeter the incense we offer to thee, 
Brothers once more round this altal 
of thine ! 



RHYMES OF AN HOUR, 



291 



Angels of Bethlehem, answer the strain ! 
Hark! a new birth-song is filling the 
sky ! — 
Loud as the storm-wind that tumbles 
the main 
Bid the full breath of the organ 
reply, _ 



Let the loud tempest of voices re- 

Roll its long surge like the earth- 
shaking main ! 
Swell the vast song till it mounts to the 
sky! — 
Angels of Bethlehem, echo the strain ! 




ADDITIONAL POEMS. 




ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



TO 1878. 



AT A MEETING OF FRIENDS. 

AUGUST 29, 1859. 

I remember — why yes ! God bless me ! 

and was it so long ago ? 
I fear 1 'm growing forgetful, as old folks 

do, you know ; 
It must have been in 'forty — I would 

say 'thirty-nine — 
We talked this matter over, I and a friend 

of mine. 

He said ""Well now, old fellow, I'm 

thinking that you and I, 
If we act like other people, shall be older 

by and by ; 
What though the bright blue ocean is 

smooth as a pond can be, 
There is always a line of breakers to 

fringe the broadest sea. 

" We 're taking it mighty easy, but that 

is nothing strange, 
For up to the age of thirty we spend our 

years like change ; 
But creeping up towards the forties, as 

fast as the old years fill, 
And Time steps in for payment, we seem 

to change a bill. 

" — I know it, — I said, — old fellow ; 
you speak the solemn truth ; 

A man can't live to a hundred and like- 
wise keep his youth ; 



But what if the ten years coming shall 

silver-streak my hair, 
You know I shall then be forty ; of 

course I shall not care. 

"At forty a man grows heavy and tired 

of fun and noise ; 
Leaves dress to the five-and-twenties and 

love to the silly boys ; 
No foppish tricks at forty, no pinching 

of waists and toes, 
But high-low shoes and flannels and good 

thick worsted hose." 

But one fine August morning I found 

myself awake : 
My birthday : — By Jove, I 'm forty ! 

Yes, forty, and no mistake ! 
Why this is the very milestone, I think 

I used to hold, 
That when a fellow had come to, a fellow 

would then be old ! 

But that is the young folks' nonsense ; 

they 're full of their foolish stuff ; 
A man 's in his prime at forty, — I see 

that plain enough ; 
At fifty a man is wrinkled, and may be 

bald or gray ; 
/ call men old at fifty, in spite of all 

they say. 

At last comes another August with miflt 
and rain and shine ; 



294 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



Its mornings are slowly counted and 

creep to twenty-nine, 
And when on the western summits the 

fading light appears, 
It touches with rosy fingers the last of 

my fifty years. 

There have been both men and women 

whose hearts were firm and bold, 
But there never was one of fifty that 

loved to say "I 'm old" ; 
So any elderly person that strives to 

shirk his years, 
Make him stand up at a table and try 

him by his peers. 

Now here I stand at fifty, my jury 

gathered round ; 
Sprinkled with dust of silver, but not 

yet silver-crowned, 
Eeady to meet your verdict, waiting to 

hear it told ; 
Guilty of fifty summers ; speak ! Is the 

verdict old ? 

No ! say that his hearing fails him ; say 
that his sight grows dim ; 

Say that he 's getting wrinkled and weak 
in back and limb, 

Losing his wits and temper, but plead- 
ing, to make amends, 

The youth of his fifty summers he finds 
in his twenty friends. 



A FAREWELL TO AGASSIZ. 

How the mountains talked together, 
Looking down upon the weather, 
When they heard our friend had planned 

his 
Little trip among the Andes ! 
How they '11 bare their snowy scalps 
To the climber of the Alps 
When the cry goes through their passes, 



" Here comes the great Agassiz ! " 
" Yes, I 'm tall," says Chimborazo, 
" But I wait for him to say so, — 
That 's the only thing that lacks, — 

he 
Must see me, Cotopaxi ! " 
" Ay ! ay ! " the fire-peak thunders, 
" And he must view my wonders ! 
I 'm but a lonely crater 
Till I have him for spectator ! " 
The mountain hearts are yearning, 
The lava-torches burning, 
The rivers bend to meet him, 
The forests bow to greet him, 
It thrills the spinal column 
Of fossil fishes solemn, 
And glaciers crawl the faster 
To the feet of their old master ! 

Heaven keep him well and hearty, 
Both him and all his party ! 
From the sun that broils and smites, 
From the centipede that bites, 
From the hail-storm and the thunder, 
From the vampire and the condor, 
From the gust upon the river, 
From the sudden earthquake shiver, 
From the trip of mule or donkey, 
From the midnight howling monkey, 
From the stroke of knife or dagger, 
From the puma and the jaguar, 
From the horrid boa-constrictor 
That has scared us in the pictur', 
From the Indians of the Pampas 
Who would dine upon their grampas, 
From every beast and vermin 
That to think of sets us squirming, 
From every snake that tries on 
The traveller his p'ison, 
From every pest of Natur', 
Likewise the alligator, 
And from two things left behind him, — 
(Be sure they '11 try to find him,) 
The tax- bill and assessor, — 
Heaven keep the great Professor ! 



A SEA DIALOGUE. 



295 



May he find, with his apostles, 
That the land is full of fossils, 
That the waters swarm with fishes 
Shaped according to his wishes, 
That every pool is fertile 
In fancy kinds of turtle, 
New birds around him singing, 
New insects, never stinging, 
With a million novel data 
About the articulata, 
Anil facts that strip off all husks 
From the history of mollusks. 

And when, with loud Te Deum, 
He returns to his Museum, 
May he find the monstrous reptile 
That so long the land has kept ill 
By Grant and Sherman throttled, 
And by Father Abraham bottled, 
(All specked and streaked and mot- 
tled 
With the scars of murderous battles, 
Where he clashed the iron rattles 
That gods and men he shook at,) 
For all the world to look at ! 

God bless the great Professor ! 
And Madam, too, God bless her! 
Bless him and all his band, 
On the sea and on the land, 
Bless them head and heart and hand, 
Till their glorious raid is o'er, 
And they touch our ransomed shore ! 
Then the welcome of a nation, 
With its shout of exultation, 
Shall awake the dumb creation, 
And the shapes of buried aeons 
Join the living creatures' paeans, 
Till the fossil echoes roar ; 
While the mighty megalosaurus 
Leads the palaeozoic chorus, — 
God bless the great Professor, 
And the land his proud possessor, — 
Bless them now and evermore ! 

1865. 



A SEA DIALOGUE. 

Cabin Passenger. Man at Wheel. 

CABIN PASSENGER. 

Friend, you seem thoughtful. I not 
wonder much 

That he who sails the ocean should be sad. 

I am myself reflective. — When I think 

Of all this wallowing beast, the Sea, has 
sucked 

Between his sharp, thin lips, the wedgy 
waves, 

What heaps of diamonds, rubies, emer- 
alds, pearls ; 

What piles of shekels, talents, ducats, 
crowns, 

What bales of Tyrian mantles, Indian 
shawls, 

Of laces that have blanked the weavers' 
eyes, 

Of silken tissues, wrought by worm and 
man, 

The half-starved workman, and the well- 
fed worm ; 

What marbles, bronzes, pictures, parch- 
ments, books ; 

What many-lobuled, thought-engender- 
ing brains ; 

Lie with the gaping sea-shells in his 
maw, — 

I, too, am silent ; for all language seems 

A mockery, and the speech of man is 
vain. 

mariner, we look upon the waves 

And they rebuke our babbling. ' ' Peace ! " 
they say, — 

' ' Mortal, be still ! " My noisy tongue 
is hushed, 

And with my trembling finger on my lips 

My soul exclaims in ecstasy — 

MAN AT WHEEL. 

Belay! 

CABIN PASSENGER. 

Ah yes! "Delay," — it calls, "noi 
haste to break 



296 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



The charm of stillness with an idle 
word ! " 

mariner, I love thee, for thy thought 
Strides even with my own, nay, flies be- 
fore. 

Thou art a brother to the wind and 

wave ; 
Have they not music for thine ear as 

mine, 
When the wild tempest makes thy ship 

his lyre, 
Smiting a cavernous basso from the 

shrouds 
And climbing up his gamut through the 

stays, 
Through buntlines, bowlines, ratlines, 

till it shrills 
An alto keener than the locust sings, 
And all the great iEolian orchestra 
Storms out its mad sonata in the gale ? 
Is not the scene a wondrous and — 

MAN AT WHEEL. 

Avast ! 

CABIN PASSENGER. 

Ah yes, a vast, a vast and wondrous 
seen* ! 

1 see thy soul is open as the day 

That holds the sunshine in its azure 

bowl 
To all the solemn glories of the deep. 
Tell me, mariner, dost thou never feel 
The grandeur of thine office, — to control 
The keel that cuts the ocean like a knife 
And leaves a wake behind it like a seam 
In the great shining garment of the 

world ? 

MAN AT WHEEL. 

Belay y'r jaw, y' swab ! y' hoss-marine ! 

{To the Captain.) 

Ay, ay, Sir ! Stiddy, Sir ! Sou'wes' 
b' sou' ! 

November 10, 1864. 



AT THE "ATLANTIC" DINNER. 

DECEMBER 15, 1874. 

I suppose it 's myself that you 're making 
allusion to 

And bringing the sense of dismay and 
confusion to. 

Of course some must speak, — they are 
always selected to, 

But pray what 's the reason that I am 
expected to ? 

I 'm not fond of wasting my breath &f 
those fellows do 

That want to be blowing forever as bel- 
lows do ; 

Their legs are uneasy, but why will you 
jog any 

That long to stay quiet beneath the ma- 
hogany ? 

"Why, why call me up with your battery 

of flatteries ? 
You say "He writes poetry," — that's 

what the matter is ! 
" It costs him no trouble — a pen full 

of ink or two 
And the poem is done in the time of a 

wink or two ; 
As for thoughts — never mind — take the 

ones that lie uppermost, 
And the rhymes used by Milton and 

Byron and Tupper most ; 
The lines come so easy 1 at one end he 

jingles 'em, 
At the other with capital letters he shin- 
gles 'em, — 
Why, the thing writes itself, and before 

he 's half done with it 
He hates to stop writing he has such 

good fun with it ! " 

Ah, that is the way in which simple ones 

go about 
And draw a fine picture of things they 

don't know about 1 



AT THE "ATLANTIC" DINNEK. 



297 



We all know a kitten, but come to a 
catamount 

The beast is a stranger when grown up 
to that amount, 

(A stranger we rather prefer should n't 
visit us, 

A felts whose advent is far from felici- 
tous.) 

The boy who can boast that his trap has 
just got a mouse 

Must n't draw it and write underneath 
" hippopotamus " ; 

Or say unveraciously, "this is an ele- 
phant " — 

Don't think, let me beg, these examples 
irrelevant — 

"What they mean is just this — that a 
thing to be painted well 

Should always be something with which 
we 're acquainted well. 

You call on your victim for "things he 
has plenty of, — 

Those copies of verses no doubt at least 
twenty of ; 

His desk is crammed full, for he always 
keeps writing 'em 

And reading to friends as his way of de- 
lighting 'em ! " — 

I tell you this writing of verses means 
business, — 

It makes the brain whirl in a vortex of 
dizziness : 

You think they are scrawled in the lan- 
guor of laziness — 

I tell you they 're squeezed by a spasm 
of craziness, 

A fit half as bad as the staggering vertigos 

That seize a poor fellow and down in the 
dirt he goes ! 

And therefore it chimes with the word's 

etymology 
That the sons . of Apollo are great on 

apology, 



For the writing of verse is a struggle 

mysterious 
And the gayest of rhymes is a matter 

that 's serious. 
For myself, I 'm relied on by friends in 

extremities, 
And I don't mind so much if a comfort 

to them it is ; 
'T is a pleasure to please, and the straw 

that can tickle us 
Is a source of enjoyment though slightly 

ridiculous. 

I am up for a — something — and since 
I 've begun with it, 

I must give you a toast now before I have 
done with it. 

Let me pump at my wits as they pumped 
the Cochituate 

That moistened — it may be — the very 
last bit you ate. 

— Success to our publishers, authors and 
editors ; 

To our debtors good luck, — pleasant 
dreams to our creditors ; 

May the monthly grow yearly, till all 
we are groping for 

Has reached the fulfilment we 're all of 
us hoping for ; 

Till the bore through the tunnel — it 
makes me let off a sigh 

To think it may possibly ruin my proph- 
ecy- 
Has been punned on so often 't will never 
provoke again 

One mild adolescent to make the old 
joke again ; 

Till abstinent, all -go -to -meeting so- 
ciety 

Has forgotten the sense of the word in- 
ebriety ; 

Till the work that poor Hannah and 
Bridget and Phillis do 

The humanized, civilized female gorillas 
do; 



298 



ADDITIONAL POEMS, 



Till the roughs, as we call them, grown 
loving and dutiful, 

Shall worship the true and the pure and 
the beautiful, 

And, preying no longer as tiger and vul- 
ture do, 

All read the "Atlantic" as persons of 
culture do ! 

" LUCY." 

FOR HER GOLDEN WEDDING, OCTOBER 
18, 1875. 

" Lucy." — The old familiar name 

Is now, as always, pleasant, 
Its liquid melody the same 

Alike in past or present ; 
Let others call you what they will, 

I know you '11 let me use it ; 
To me your name is Lucy still, 

I cannot bear to lose it. 

What visions of the past return 

With Lucy's image blended ! 
What memories from the silent urn 

Of gentle lives long ended ! 
What dreams of childhood's fleeting 
morn, 

What starry aspirations, 
That filled the misty days unborn 

With fancy's coruscations S 

Ah, Lucy, life has swiftly sped 

From April to November ; 
The summer blossoms all are shed 

That you and I remember ; 
But while the vanished years we share 

With mingling recollections, 
How all their shadowy features wear 

The hue of old affections ! 

Love called you. He who stole your 
heart 
Of sunshine half bereft us ; 



Our household's garland fell apart 
The morning that you left us ; 

The tears of tender girlhood streamed 
Through sorrow's opening sluices ; 

Less sweet our garden's roses seemed. 
Less blue its flower-de-luces. 

That old regret is turned to smiles, 

That parting sigh to greeting ; 
I send my heart-throb fifty miles, — 

Through every line 't is beating ; 
God grant you many and happy years, 

Till when the last has crowned you 
The dawn of endless day appears, 

And Heaven is shining round you ! 

October 11, 1875. 

HYMN. 

FOR THE INAUGURATION OF THE STATUE 
OF GOVERNOR ANDREW, HINGHAM, 
OCTOBER 7, 1875. 

Behold the shape our eyes have known ! 
It lives once more in changeless stone ; 
So looked in mortal face and form 
Our guide through peril's deadly storm. 

But hushed the beating heart we knew, 
That heart so tender, brave, and true, 
Firm as the rooted mountain rock, 
Pure as the quarry's whitest block ! 

Not his beneath the blood-red star 
To win the soldier's envied scar ; 
Unarmed he battled for the right, 
In Duty's never-ending fight. 

Unconquered will, unslumbering eye, 
Faith such as bids the martyr die, 
The prophet's glance, the master's hand 
To mould the work his foresight planned, 

These were his gifts ; what Heaven had 

lent 
For justice, mercy, truth* he spent, 



A MEMORIAL TRIBUTE. 



299 



First to avenge the traitorous blow, 
And first to lift the vanquished foe. 

Lo, thus he stood ; in danger's strait 
The pilot of the Pilgrim State ! 
Too large his fame for her alone, — 
A nation claims him as her own ! 



A MEMORIAL TRIBUTE. 

READ AT THE MEETING HELD AT MUSIC 
HALL, FEBRUARY 8, 1S76, IN MEMORY 
OF DR. SAMUEL G. HOWE. 

I. 

Leader of armies, Israel's God, 

Thy soldier's right is won ! 
Master, whose lowly path he trod, 

Thy servant's work is done ! 

No voice is heard from Sinai's steep 
Our wandering feet to guide ; 

From Horeb's rock no waters leap ; 
No Jordan's waves divide ; 

No prophet cleaves our western sky 

On wheels of whirling fire ; 
No shepherds hear the song on high 

Of heaven's angelic choir : 

Yet here as to the patriarch's tent 

God's angel comes a guest ; 
He comes on heaven's high errand sent, 

In earth's poor raiment drest. 

"We see no halo round his brow 

Till love its own recalls, 
And like a leaf that quits the bough, 

The mortal vesture falls. 

In autumn's chill declining day, 

Ere winter's killing frost, 
The message came ; so passed away 

The friend our earth has lost. 



Still, Father, in Thy love we trust ; 

Forgive us if we mourn 
The saddening hour that laid in dust 

His robe of flesh outworn. 



II. 



How 



long the wreck-strewn journey 
seems 
To reach the far-off past 
That woke his yoath from peaceful 
dreams 
With Freedom's trumpet-blast ! 

Along her classic hillsides rung 

The Paynim's battle-cry, 
And like a red-cross knight he sprung 

For her to live or die. 

No trustier service claimed the wreath 

For Sparta's bravest son ; 
No truer soldier sleeps beneath 

The mound of Marathon ; 

Yet not for him the warrior's grave 

In front of angry foes ; 
To lift, to shield, to help, to save, 

The holier task he chose. 

He touched the eyelids of the blind, 
And lo ! the veil withdrawn, 

As o'er the midnight of the mind, 
He led the light of dawn. 

He asked not whence the fountains roll 
No traveller's foot has found, 

But mapped the desert of the soul 
Untracked by sight or sound. 

"What prayers have reached the sapphira 
throne, 
By silent fingers spelt, 
For him who first through depths un« 
known 
His doubtful pathway felt, 



300 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



Who sought the slumbering sense that 
lay 

Close shut with bolt and bar, 
And showed awakening thought the ray 

Of reason's morning star ! 

Where'er he moved, his shadowy form 
The sightless orbs would seek, 

And smiles of welcome light and warm 
The lips that could not speak. 

No labored line, no sculptor's art, 
Such hallowed memory needs ; 

His tablet is the human heart, 
His record loving deeds. 

III. 

The rest that earth denied is thine, — 

Ah, is it rest ? we ask, 
Or, traced by knowledge more divine, 

Some larger, nobler task ? 

Had but those boundless fields of blue 
One darkened sphere like this ; 

But what has heaven for thee to do 
In realms of perfect bliss ? 

No cloud to lift, no mind to clear, 

No rugged path to smooth, 
No struggling soul to help and cheer, 

No mortal grief to soothe ! 

Enough ; is there a world of love, 

No more we ask to know ; 
The hand will guide thy ways above 

That shaped thy task below. 



JOSEPH WARREN, M. D. 

Trained in the holy art whose lifted 

shield 
Wards off the darts a never-slumbering 

foe, 



By hearth and wayside lurking, waits to 

throw, 
Oppression taught his helpful arm to 

wield 
The slayer's weapon : on the murderous 

field 
The fiery bole Le challenged laid him 

low, 
Seeking its noblest victim. Even so 
The charter of a nation must be sealed ! 
The healer's brow the hero's honors 

crowned, 
From lowliest duty called to loftiest 

deed. 
Living, the oak-leaf wreath his temples 

bound ; 
Dying, the conqueror's laurel was his 

meed, 
Last on the broken ramparts' turf to 

bleed 
Where Freedom's victory in defeat was 

found. 

June 11, 1875. 

GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER- 
HILL BATTLE. 

AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY. 

'T IS like stirring living embers when, 

at eighty, one remembers 
All the achings and the quakings of 

" the times that tried men's souls" ; 
When I talk of Whig and Tory, when 

I tell the Rebel story, 
To you the words are ashes, but to me 

they 're burning coals. 

I had heard the muskets' rattle of the 

April running battle ; 
Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see 

their red coats still ; 
But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the 

day looms up before me, 
When a thousand men lay bleeding on 

the slopes of Bunker's Hill. 



GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE. 301 



T was a peaceful summer's morning, 

when the first thing gave us warning 
Was the booming of the cannon from the 

river and the shore : 
"Child," says grandma, "what's the 

matter, what is all this noise and 

clatter ? 
Have those scalping Indian devils come 

to murder us once more ? " 

Poor old soul ! my sides were shaking 

in the midst of all my quaking, 
To hear her talk of Indians when the 

guns began to roar : 
She had seen the burning village, and 

the slaughter and the pillage, 
When the Mohawks killed her father 

with their bullets through his door. 

Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, 

don't you fret and worry any, 
For I '11 soon come back and tell you 

whether this is work or play; 
There can't be mischief in it, so I won't 

be gone a minute " — 
For a minute then I started. I was 

gone the livelong day. 

No time for bodice-lacing or for looking- 
glass grimacing ; 

Down my hair went as I hurried, tum- 
bling half-way to my heels ; 

God forbid your ever knowing, when 
there 's blood around her flowing, 

How the lonely, helpless daughter of a 
quiet household feels ! 

In the street I heard a thumping ; and 

I knew it was the stumping 
Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on 

that wooden leg he wore, 
With a knot of women round him, — it 

was lucky I had found him, 
So I followed with the others, and the 

Corporal marched before. 



They were making for the steeple, — the 

old soldier and his people ; 
The pigeons circled round us as we 

climbed the creaking stair, 
Just across the narrow river — 0, so 

close it made me shiver ! — 
Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but 

yesterday was bare. 

Not slow our eyes to find it ; well we 
knew who stood behind it, 

Though the earthwork hid them from 
us, and the stubborn walls were 
dumb : 

Here were sister, wife, and mother, look- 
ing wild upon each other, 

And their lips were white with terror as 
they said, The hour has come ! 

The morning slowly wasted, not a mor- 
sel had we tasted, 

And our heads were almost splitting 
with the cannons' deafening thrill, 

When a figure tall and stately round 
the rampart strode sedately; 

It was Prescott, one since told me ; he 
commanded on the hill. 

Every woman's heart grew bigger when 
we saw his manly figure, 

With the banyan buckled round it, 
standing up so straight and tall ; 

Like a gentleman of leisure who is 
strolling out for pleasure, 

Through the storm of shells and can- 
non-shot he walked around the walk 

At eleven the streets were swarming, for 

the red-coats' ranks were forming ; 
At noon in marching order they were 

moving to the piers; 
How the baj T onets gleamed and glistened, 

as we looked far down, and listened 
To the trampling and the drum-beat of 

the belted grenadiers 1 



302 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



At length the men have started, with a 

cheer (it seemed faint-hearted), 
In their scarlet regimentals, with their 

knapsacks on their backs, 
And the reddening, rippling water, as 

after a sea-fight's slaughter, 
Round the barges gliding onward 

blushed like blood along their 

tracks. 

So they crossed to the other border, and 
again they formed in order ; 

And the boats came back for soldiers, 
came for soldiers, soldiers still : 

The time seemed everlasting to us wo- 
men faint and fasting, — 

At last they 're moving, marching, 
marching proudly up the hill. 

We can see the bright steel glancing all 

along the lines advancing — 
Now the front rank fires a volley — they 

have thrown away their shot ; 
For behind their earthwork lying, all 

the balls above them flying, 
Our people need not hurry ; so they 

wait and answer not. 

Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he 
would swear sometimes and tip- 
ple), — 

He had heard the bullets whistle (in the 
old French war) before, — 

Calls out in words of jeering, just as if 
they all were hearing, — 

And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on 
the dusty belfry floor : — 

" Oh ! fire away, ye villains, and earn 

King George's shillin's, 
But ye '11 waste a ton of powder afore 

a ' rebel ' falls ; 
You may bang the dirt and welcome, 

they 're as safe as Dan'l Malcolm 
Ten foot beneath the gravestone that 

you 've splintered with your balls I " 



In the hush of expectation, in the awe 

and trepidation 
Of the dread approaching moment, we 

are wellnigh breathless all ; 
Though the rotten bars are failing on 

the rickety belfry railing, 
We are crowding up against them like 

the waves against a wall. 

Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they 
are nearer, — nearer, — nearer, 

When a flash — a curling smoke-wreath 
— then a crash — the steeple 
shakes — 

The deadly truce is ended ; the tem- 
pest's shroud is rended ; 

Like a morning mist it gathered, like a 
thunder-cloud it breaks ! 

the sight our eyes discover as the 

blue-black smoke blows over ! 
The red-coats stretched in windrows as 

a mower rakes his hay; 
Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a 

headlong crowd is flying 
Like a billow that has broken and is 

shivered into spray. 

Then we cried, "The troops are routed! 

they are beat — it can't be doubted 1 
God be thanked, the fight is over ! " — 

Ah ! the grim old soldier's smile ! 
" Tell us, tell us why you look so ? " (w& 

could hardly speak, we shook so), — 
"Are they beaten? Are they beaten? 

Are they beaten?" — "Wait a 

while." 

the trembling and the terror ! for too 

soon we saw our error : 
They are baffled, not defeated ; we have 

driven them back in vain ; 
And the columns that were scattered, 

round the colors that were tattered, 
Toward the sullen silent fortress turn 

their belted breasts again. 



Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety belfry railing, 
We are crowding up against than like the waves against a wall 



GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER-HILL BATTLE. 



303 



All at once, as we are gazing, lo the 

roofs of Charlestown blazing ! 
They have fired the harmless village ; 

in an hour it will be down ! 
The Lord in heaven confound them, 

rain his fire and brimstone round 

them, — 
The robbing, murdering red-coats, that 

would burn a peaceful town ! 

They are marching, stern and solemn ; 

we can see each massive column 
As they near the naked earth-mound 

with the slanting walls so steep. 
Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and 

in noiseless haste departed ? 
Are they panic-struck and helpless ? 

Are they palsied or asleep ? 

Now ! the walls they 're almost under ! 

scarce a rod the foes asunder ! 
Not a firelock flashed against them ! up 

the earthwork they will swarm ! 
But the words have scarce been spoken, 

when the ominous calm is broken, 
And a bellowing crash has emptied all 

the vengeance of the storm ! 

So again, with murderous slaughter, 

pelted backwards to the water, 
Fly Pigot's running heroes and the 

frightened braves of Howe ; 
And we shout, "At last they're done 

for, it 's their barges they have run 

for : 
They are beaten, beaten, beaten ; and 

the battle 's over now ! " 

And we looked, poor timid creatures, on 

the rough old soldier's features, 
Our lips afraid to question, but he knew 

what we would ask : 
"Not sure," he said; "keep quiet, — 

once more, I guess, they '11 try it — 
Here 's damnation to the cut-throats ! " 

then he handed me his flask, 



Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; 
have a drop of old Jamaiky; 

I 'm afeard there '11 be more trouble afore 
the job is done " ; 

So I took one scorching swallow ; dread- 
ful faint I felt and hollow, 

Standing there from early morning when 
the firing was begun. 

All through those hours of trial I had 
watched a calm clock dial, 

As the hands kept creeping, creeping, — 
they were creeping round to four, 

"When the old man said, " They 're form- 
ing with their bagonets fixed for 
storming : 

It 's the death-grip that 's a coming, — 
they will try the works once more." 

"With brazen trumpets blaring, the 

flames behind them glaring, 
The deadly wall before them, in close 

array they come ; 
Still onward, upward toiling, like a 

dragon's fold uncoiling, — 
Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning 

the reverberating drum ! 

Over heaps all torn and gory — shall I 

tell the fearful story, 
How they surged above the breastwork, 

as a sea breaks over a deck ; 
How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our 

worn-out men retreated, 
"With their powder-horns all emptied, 

like the swimmers from a wreck ? 

It has all been told and painted ; as for 

me, they say I fainted, 
And the wooden-legged old Corporal 

stumped with me down the stair; 
"When I woke from dreams affrighted 

the evening lamps were lighted, — 
On the floor a youth was lying ; his 

bleeding breast was bare. 



304 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



And I heard through all the flurry, 

"Send for Warren ! hurry ! hurry! 
Tell him here 's a soldier bleeding, and 

he '11 come and dress his wound ! " 
Ah, we knew not till the morrow told 

its tale of death and sorrow, 
How the starlight found him stiffened 

on the dark and bloody ground. 

Who the youth was, what his name was, 

where the place from which he 

came was, 
Who had brought him from the battle, 

and had left him at our door, 
He could not speak to tell us; but 

't was one of our brave fellows, 
As the homespun plainly showed us 

which the dying soldier wore. 

For they all thought he was dying, as 

they gathered round him crying, — 
And they said, "0, how they'll miss 

him!" and, "What will his mother 

do?" 
Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a 

child's that has been dozing, 
He faintly murmured, "Mother !" 

and — I saw his eyes were blue. 

— "Why, grandma, how you're wink- 

ing!" — Ah, my child, it sets me 

thinking 
Of a story not like this one. Well, he 

somehow lived along ; 
So we came to know each other, and I 

nursed him like a — mother, 
Till at last he stood before me, tall, and 

rosy-cheeked, and strong. 

And we sometimes walked together in 
the pleasant summer weather ; 

— "Please to tell us what his name 

was?" — Just your own, my little 
dear, — 



There 's his picture Copley painted : w» 
became so well acquainted, 

That — in short, that 's why I 'm grand- 
ma, and you children all are here ! 



OLD CAMBRIDGE. 

JULY 3, 1875. 

And can it be you 've found a place 
Within this consecrated space 

That makes so fine a show 
For one of Rip Van Winkle's race ? 

And is it really so ? 
Who wants an old receipted bill ? 
Who fishes in the Frog-pond still ? 
Who digs last year's potato hill ? — 

That 's what he 'd like to know ! 

And were it any spot on earth 

Save this dear home that gave him birth 

Some scores of years ago, 
He had not come to spoil your mirth 

And chill your festive glow ; 
But round his baby-nest he strays, 
With tearful eye the scene surveys, 
His heart unchanged by changing 
days, — 

That 's what he 'd have you know. 

Can you whose eyes not yet are dim 
Live o'er the buried past with him, 

And see the roses blow 
When white-haired men were Joe an<J 
Jim 

Untouched by winter's snow ? 
Or roll the years back one by one 
As Judah's monarch backed the sun, 
And see the century just begun ? — 

That 's what he 'd like to know I 

I come, but as the swallow dips, 
Just touching with her feather-tipa 
The shining wave below, 



OLD CAMBRIDGE. 



305 



To sit with pleasure-murmuring lips 

And listen to the flow 
Of Elmwood's sparkling Hippocrene, 
To tread once more my native green, 
To sigh unheard, to smile unseen, — 

That 's what I 'd have you know. 

But since the common lot I 've shared 
(We all are sitting " unprepared," 

Like culprits in a row, 
Whose heads are down, whose necks are 
bared 

To wait the headsman's blow) 
I'd like to shift my task to you, 
By asking just a thing or two 
About the good old times I knew, — 

Here 's what I want to know : 

The yellow meetin' house — can you tell 
Just where it stood before it fell 

Prey of the vandal foe, — 
Our dear old temple, loved so well 

By ruthless hands laid low ? 
Where, tell me, was the Deacon's pew ? 
Whose hair was braided in a queue ? 
(For there were pig-tails not a few,) — 

That 's what I 'd like to know. 

The bell — can you recall its clang ? 
And how the seats would slam and bang ? 

The voices high and low ? 
The basso's trump before he sang ? 

The viol and its bow ? 
Where was it old Judge Winthrop sat ? 
Who wore the last three-cornered hat ? 
Was Israel Porter lean or fat ? — 

That 's what I 'd like to know. 

Tell where the market used to be 
That stood beside the' murdered tree ? 

Whose dog to church would go ? 
Old Marcus Reemie, who was he ? 

Who were the brothers Snow ? 
Does not your memory slightly fail 
About that great September gale 



Whereof one told a moving tale, 
As Cambridge boys should know. 

When Cambridge was a simple town, 
Say just when Deacon William Brown 

(Last door in yonder row), 
For honest silver counted down, 

His groceries would bestow ? — 
For those were days when money meant 
Something that jingled as you went, — 
No hybrid like the nickel cent, 

I 'd have you all to know, 

But quarter, ninepence, pistareen, 
And fcurpence happenhies in between 

All metal fit to show, 
Instead of rags in stagnant green, 

The scum of debts we owe ; 
How sad to think such stuff should be 
Our Wendell's cure-all recipe, — 
Hot Wendell H., but Wendell P., — 

The one you all must know ! 

I question — but you answer not — 
Dear me ! and have I quite forgot 

How fivescore years ago, 
Just on this very blessed spot, 

The summer leaves below, 
Before his homespun ranks arrayed 
In green New England's elmbough shade 
The great Virginian drew the blade 

King George full soon should know ! 

George the Third ! you found it true 
Our George was more than double you, 

For nature made him so. 
Not much an empire's crown can do 

If brains are scant and slow, — 
Ah, not like that his laurel crown 
Whose presence gilded with renown 
Our brave old Academic town, 

As all her children know ! 

So here we meet with loud acclaim 
To tell mankind that here he came, 
With hearts that throb and glow ; 



306 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



Ours is a portion of his fame 
Our trumpets needs must blow ! 

On yonder hill the Lion fell, 

But here was chipped the eagle's shell, — 

That little hatchet did it well, 
As all the world shall know ! 

WELCOME TO THE NATIONS. 

PHILADELPHIA, JULY 4, 1876. 

Bright on the banners of lily and rose 
Lo ! the last sun of our century sets ! 
Wreath the black cannon that scowled 
on our foes, 
All but her friendships the nation for- 
gets ! 
All but her friends and their welcome 

forgets ! 
These are around her ; but where are 
her foes ? 
Lo, while the sun of her century sets, 
Peace with her garlands of lily and 
rose ! 

"Welcome ! a shout like the war trumpet's 
swell 
Wakes the wild echoes that slumber 
around ! 
Welcome ! it quivers from Liberty's bell ; 
Welcome ! the walls of her temple re- 
sound ! 
Hark ! the gray walls of her temple 
resound ! 
Fade the far voices o'er hillside and dell ; 
Welcome ! still whisper the echoes 

around ; 
Welcome ! still trembles on Liberty's 
bell! 

Thrones of the continents ! isles of the 

sea ! 
Yours are the garlands of peace we 

entwine ; 
Welcome, once more, to the land of the 

free, 



Shadowed alike by the palm and the 
pine; 

Softly they murmur, the palm and the 
pine, 
" Hushed is our strife, in the land of 
the free " ; 

Over your children their branches en- 
twine, 

Thrones of the continents ! isles of 
the sea ! 



A FAMILIAR LETTER. 

TO SEVERAL CORRESPONDENTS. 

Yes, write, if you want to, there 's noth- 
ing like trying ; 
Who knows what a treasure your cas- 
ket may hold ? 
J '11 show you that rhyming 's as easy as 
lying 
If you '11 listen to me while the art I 
unfold. 

Here 's a book full of words ; one can 
choose as he fancies, 
As a painter his tint, as a workman 
his tool ; 
Just think ! all the poems and plays and 
romances 
Were drawn out of this, like the fish 
from a pool ! 

You can wander at will through its syl- 
labled mazes, 
And take all you want, — not a cop- 
per they cost, — 
What is there to hinder your picking 
out phrases 
For an epic as clever as "Paradise 
Lost"? 

Don't mind if the index of sense is at 
zero. 






A FAMILIAE LETTER. 



307 



Use words that run smoothly, what- I 'T is only a photographed sketch of an 



ever they mean ; 
Leander and Lilian and Lillibullero 
Are much the same thing in the 
rhyming machine. 

There are words so delicious their sweet- 
ness will smother 
That boarding-school flavor of which 
we 're afraid, — 
There is "lush" is a good one, and 
" swirl " is another, — 
Put both in one stanza, its fortune is 
made. 

With musical murmurs and rhythmical 
closes 
You can cheat us of smiles when you 've 
nothing to tell ; 
You hand us a nosegay of milliner's roses, 
And we cry with delight, "0, how 
sweet they do smell ! " 

Perhaps you will answer all needful con- 
ditions 
For winning the laurels to which you 
aspire, 
By docking the tails of the two preposi- 
tions 
I' the style o' the bards you so greatly 
admire. 

As for subjects of verse, they are only 
too plenty 
For ringing the changes on metrical 
chimes ; 
A maiden, a moonbeam, a lover of twenty 
Have filled that great basket with 
bushels of rhymes. 

Let me show you a picture — 't is far 
from irrelevant — 
By a famous old hand in the arts of 
design ; 



elephant, — 
The name of the draughtsman was 
Rembrandt of Rhine. 

How easy ! no troublesome colors to lay 
on, 
It can't have fatigued him, — no, not 
in the least, — 
A dash, here and there with a hap-hazard 
crayon, 
And there stands the wrinkled- 
skinned, baggy-limbed beast. 

Just so with your verse, — 't is as easy 
as sketching, — 
You can reel off a song without knit- 
ting your brow, 
As lightly as Rembrandt a drawing or 
etching ; 
It is nothing at all, if you only know 
how. » 

Well ; imagine you 've printed your vol- 
ume of verses : 
Your forehead is wreathed with the 
garland of fame, 
Your poems the eloquent school-boy re- 
hearses, 
Her album the school-girl presents for 
your name ; 

Each morning the post brings you auto- 
graph letters ; 
You '11 answer them promptly, — an 
hour is n't much 
For the honor of sharing a page with 
your betters, 
With magistrates, members of Con- 
gress, and such. 

Of course you 're delighted to serve the 
committees 
That come with requests from the 
country all round ; 



308 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



You would grace the occasion with poems 
and ditties 
"When they 've got a new schoolhouse, 
or poorhouse, or pound. 

"With a hymn for the saints and a song 
for the sinners, 
You go and are welcome wherever you 
please ; 
You 're a privileged guest at all manner 
of dinners, 
You 've a seat on the platform among 
the grandees. 

At length your mere presence becomes 
a sensation, 
Your cup of enjoyment is filled to its 
brim 
"With the pleasure Horatian of digit- 
monstration, 
As the whisper runs round of " That 's 
he!" or "That 'shim!" 

But remember, dealer in phrases sono- 
rous, 
So daintily chosen, so tunefully 
matched, 
Though you soar with the wings of the 
cherubim o'er us, 
The ovum was human from which you 
were hatched. 

No will of your own with its puny com- 
pulsion 
Can summon the spirit that quickens 
the lyre ; 
It comes, if at all, like the Sibyl's con- 
vulsion 
And touches the brain with a finger 
of fire. 

So perhaps, after all, it 's as well to be 
quiet, 
If you Ve nothing you think is worth 
saying in prose, 



As to furnish a meal of their cannibal 
diet 
To the critics, by publishing, as you 
propose. 

But it 's all of no use, and I 'm sorry 
I 've written, — 
I shall see your thin volume some day 
on my shelf ; 
For the rhyming tarantula surely has 
bitten, 
And music must cure you, so pipe it 
yourself. 



UNSATISFIED. 

"Only a housemaid!" She looked 
from the kitchen, — 
Neat was the kitchen and tidy was 
she ; 
There at her window a sempstress sat 
stitching ; 
" "Were I a sempstress, how happy 
I'd be ! " 

' ' Only a Queen ! " She looked over the 
waters, — 
Fair was her kingdom and mighty was 
she ; 
There sat an Empress, with Queens for 
her daughters ; 
"Were I an Empress, how happy I 'd 
be!" 

Still the old frailty they all of them trip 
in! 
Eve in her daughters is ever the 
same ; 
Give her all Eden, she sighs for a 
pippin ; 
Give her an Empire, she pines for* 
name ! 

May 8. 1876. 



HOW THE OLD HORSE WON THE BET. 



309 



HOW THE OLD HORSE WON THE 
BET. 

DEDICATED BY A CONTRIBUTOR TO THE 
COLLEGIAN, 1830, TO THE EDITORS OF 
THE HARVARD ADVOCATE, 1876. 

'T was on the famous trotting-ground, 
The betting men were gathered round 
From far and near ; the " cracks " were 

there 
Whose deeds the sporting prints declare : 
The swift g. m., Old Hiram's nag, 
The fleet s. h., Dan Pfeiffer's brag, 
With these a third — and who is he 
That stands beside his fast b. g. ? 
Budd Doble, whose catarrhal name 
So fills the nasal trump of fame. 
There too stood many a noted steed 
Of Messenger and Morgan breed ; 
Green horses also, not a few ; 
Unknown as yet what they could do ; 
And all the hacks that know so well 
The scourgings of the Sunday swell. 

Blue are the skies of opening day ; 
The bordering turf is green with May ; 
The sunshine's golden gleam is thrown 
On sorrel, chestnut, bay, and roan ; 
The horses paw and prance and neigh, 
Fillies and colts like kittens play, 
And dance and toss their rippled manes 
Shining and soft as silken skeins ; 
Wagons and gigs are ranged about, 
And fashion flaunts her gay turn-out ; 
Here stands — each youthful Jehu's 

dream — 
The jointed tandem, ticklish team ! 
And there in ampler breadth expand 
The splendors of the four-in-hand ; 
On faultless ties and glossy tiles 
The lovely bonnets beam their smiles ; 
(The style 'a the man, so books avow ; 
The style 's the woman, anyhow) ; 
From flounces frothed with creamy lace 
Peeps out the pug-dog's smutty face, 



Or spaniel rolls his liquid eye, 
Or stares the wiry pet of Skye — 

woman, in your hours of ease 
So shy with us, so free with these ! 

" Come on ! I '11 bet you two to one 
I'll make him do it!" "Will you? 
Done ! " 

What was it who was bound to do ? 

1 did not hear and can't tell you, — 
Pray listen till my story 's through. 

Scarce noticed, back behind the rest, 
By cart and wagon rudely prest, 
The parson's lean and bony bay 
Stood harnessed in his one-horse shay — 
Lent to his sexton for the day ; 
(A funeral — so the sexton said ; 
His mother's uncle's wife was dead.) 

Like Lazarus bid to Dives' feast, 
So looked the poor forlorn old beast ; 
His coat was rough, his tail was bare, 
The gray was sprinkled rh his hair ; 
Sportsmen and jockeys knew him not 
And yet they say he once could trot 
Among the fleetest of the town, 
Till something cracked and broke him 

down, — 
The steed's, the statesman's, common 

lot! 
" And are we then so soon forgot ? " 
Ah me ! I doubt if one of you 
Has ever heard the name " Old Blue," 
Whose fame through all this region rung 
In those old days when I was young ! 

" Bring forth the horse ! " Alas ! he 
showed 

Not like the one Mazeppa rode ; 

Scant-maned, sharp-backed, and shaky- 
kneed, 

The wreck of what was once a steed, 

Lips thin, eyes hollow, stiff in joints ; 



310 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



Yet not without his knowing points. 
The sexton laughing in his sleeve, 
As if 't were all a make-believe, 
Led forth the horse, and as he laughed 
Unhitched the breeching from a shaft, 
Unclasped the rusty belt beneath, 
Drew forth the snaffle from his teeth, 
Slipped off his head-stall, set him free 
From strap and rein, — a sight to see ! 

So worn, so lean in every limb, 
It can't be they are saddling him ! 
It is ! his back the pig-skin strides 
And flaps his lank, rheumatic sides ; 
With look of mingled scorn and mirth 
They buckle round the saddle-girth ; 
With horsey wink and saucy toss 
A youngster throws his leg across, 
And so, his rider on his back, 
They lead him, limping, to the track, 
Far up behind the starting-point, 
To limber out each stiffened joint. 

As through the jeering crowd he past, 
One pitying look old Hiram cast ; 
" Go it, ye cripple, while ye can ! " 
Cried out unsentimental Dan ; 
"A Fast-Day dinner for the crows ! " 
Budd Doble's scoffing shout arose. 

Slowly, as when the walking-beam 
First feels the gathering head of steam, 
With warning cough and threatening 

wheeze 
The stiff old charger crooks his knees ; 
At first with cautious step sedate, 
As if he dragged a coach of state ; 
He 's not a colt ; he knows full well 
That time is weight and sure to tell ; 
No horse so sturdy but he fears 
The handicap of twenty years. 

As through the throng on either hand 
The old horse nears the judges' stand, 
Beneath his jockey's feather-weight 
He warms a little to his gait, 



And now and then a step is tried 
That hints of something like a stride. 

" Go ! " — Through his ear the sum- 
mons stung 
As if a battle-trump had rung ; 
The slumbering instincts long un- 
stirred 
Start at the old familiar word ; 
It thrills like flame through every limb— 
What mean his twenty years to him ? 
The savage blow his rider dealt 
Fell on his hollow flanks unfelt ; 
The spur that pricked his staring hide 
Unheeded tore his bleeding side ; 
Alike to him are spur and rein, — 
He steps a five-year-old again ! 

Before the quarter pole was past, 
Old Hiram said, " He 's going fast." 
Long ere the quarter was a half, 
The chuckling crowd had ceased to 

laugh ; 
Tighter his frightened jockey clung 
As in a mighty stride he swung, 
The gravel flying in his track, 
His neck stretched out, his ears laid 

back, 
His tail extended all the while 
Behind him like a rat-tail file ! 
Off went a shoe, — away it spun, 
Shot like a bullet from a gun ; 
The quaking jockey shapes a prayer 
From scraps of oaths he used to swear ; 
He drops his whip, he drops his rein, 
He clutches fiercely for a mane ; 
He '11 lose his hold — he sways and 

reels — 
He '11 slide beneath those trampling 

heels ! 
The knees of many a horseman quake, 
The flowers on many a bonnet shake, 
And shouts arise from left and right, 
" Stick on ! Stick on ! " ' ' Hould tight 1 

Hould tight ! " 



Scant-maned) sharp-backed, and shaky-kneed, 
The wreck of what wets o?ice a steed 



AN APPEAL FOR "THE OLD SOUTH. 



311 



K Cling round his neck and don't let 

go — 
" That pace can't hold — there ! steady ! 

whoa ! " 
But like the sable steed that bore 
The spectral lover of Lenore, 
His nostrils snorting foam and fire, 
No stretch his bony limbs can tire ; 
And now the stand he rushes by, 
And " Stop him ! — stop him ! " is the 

cry. 
Stand back ! he 's only just begun — 
He 's having out three heats in one ! 

" Don't rush in front ! he '11 smash your 

brains ; 
But follow up and grab the reins ! " 
Old Hiram spoke. Dan Pfeiffer heard, 
And sprang impatient at the word ; 
Budd Doble started on his bay, 
Old Hiram followed on his gray, 
And off they spring, and round they go, 
The fast ones doing "all they know." 
Look ! twice they follow at his heels, 
As round the circling course he wheels, 
And whirls with him that clinging boy 
Like Hector round the walls of Troy ; 
Still on, and on, the third time round ! 
They 're tailing off! they 're losing 

ground ! 
Budd Doble's nag begins to fail ! 
Dan Pfeiffer's sorrel whisks his tail ! 
And see ! in spite of whip and shout, 
Old Hiram's mare is giving out ! 
Now for the finish ! at the turn, 
The old horse — all the rest astern — 
Comes swinging in, with easy trot ; 
By Jove ! he 's distanced all the lot ! 

That trot no mortal could explain ; 
Some said, "Old Dutchman come 

again ! " 
Some took his time, — at least they 

tried, 
But what it was could none decide ; 



One said he could n't understand 
"What happened to his second hand ; 
One said 2. 10 ; that could n't be — 
More like two twenty two or three ; 
Old Hiram settled it at last ; 
"The time was two — too dee-vel-ish 
fast ! " 

The parson's horse had won the bet ; 
It cost him something of a sweat ; 
Back in the one-horse shay he went ; 
The parson wondered what it meant, 
And murmured, with a mild surprise 
And pleasant twinkle of the eyes, 
' ' That funeral must have been a trick, 
Or corpses drive at double-quick ; 
I should n't wonder, I declare, 
If brother Jehu made the prayer ! " 

And this is all I have to say 
About the parson's poor old bay, 
The same that drew the one-horse 
shay. 

Moral for which this tale is told : 
A horse can trot, for all he 's old. 



AN APPEAL FOR "THE OLD SOUTH." 

"While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall 

stand ; 
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall" 

Full sevenscore years our city's pride — 

The comely Southern spire — 
Has cast its shadow, and defied 

The storm, the foe. the fire ; 
Sad is the sight our eyes behold ; 

Woe to the three-hilled town, 
When through the land the tale is 
told— 

" The brave ' Old South ' is down ! " 



Let darkness blot the starless dawn 
That hears our children tell, 



312 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



" Here rose the 'walls, now "wrecked and 
gone, 

Our fathers loved so well ; 
Here, while his brethren stood aloof, 

The herald's blast was blown 
That shook St. Stephen's pillared roof 

And rocked King George's throne ! 

"The home-bound wanderer of the main 

Looked from his deck afar, 
To where the gilded, glittering vane 

Shone like the evening star, 
And pilgrim feet from every clime 

The floor with reverence trod, 
Where holy memories made sublime 

The shrine of Freedom's God ! " 

The darkened skies, alas ! have seen 

Our monarch tree laid low, 
And spread in ruins o'er the green, 

But Nature struck the blow ; 
No scheming thrift its downfall planned, 

It felt no edge of steel, 
No soulless hireling raised his hand 

The deadly stroke to deal. 

In bridal garlands, pale and mute, 

Still pleads the storied tower ; 
These are the blossoms, but the fruit 

Awaits the golden shower ; 
The spire still greets the morning sun, — 

Say, shall it stand or fall ? 
Help, ere the spoiler has begun ! 

Help, each, and God help all ! 

THE FIRST FAN. 

READ AT A MEETING OF THE BOSTON 
BRIC-A-BRAC CLUB, FEBRUARY 21, 1877. 

When rose the cry ' ' Great Pan is dead ! " 
And Jove's high palace closed its por- 
tal, 

The fallen gods, before they fled, 
Sold out their frippery to a mortal. 



" To whom ? " yon ask. I ask of you. 

The answer hardly needs suggestion ; 
Of course it was the Wandering Jew, — 

How could you put me such a ques- 
tion ? 

A purple robe, a little worn, 

The Thunderer deigned himself to 
offer ; 
The bearded wanderer laughed in 
scorn, — 
You know he always was a scoffer. 

" Vife shillins ! 't is a monstrous price ; 
Say two and six and further talk 
shun." 
"Take it," cried Jove; "we can't be 
nice, — 
'T would fetch twice that at Leonard's 
auction." 

The ice was broken ; up they came, 
All sharp for bargains, god and god- 
dess, 

Each ready with the price to name 
For robe or head-dress, scarf or bodice. 

First Juno, out of temper, too, — 
Her queenly forehead somewhat 
cloudy ; 

Then Pallas in her stockings blue, 
Imposing, but a little dowdy. 

The scowling queen of heaven unrolled 
Before the Jew a threadbare turban : 

' ' Three shillings. " " One. 'T will suit 
some old 
Terrific feminine suburban." 

But as for Pallas, — how to tell 

In seemly phrase a fact so shocking ? 

She pointed, — pray excuse me, — well, 
She pointed to her azure stocking. 

And if the honest truth were told, 
Its heel confessed the need of darning j 



THE FIKST FAN. 



313 



"Gods!" low-bred Vulcan cried, "be- 
hold! 
There ! that *s what comes of too much 
laming ! " 

Pale Proserpine came groping round, 
Her pupils dreadfully dilated 

With too much living underground, — 
A residence quite overrated ; 

" This kerchief 's what you want, I 
know, — 
Don't cheat poor Venus of her ces- 
tus, — 
You '11 find it handy when you go 
To — you know where ; it 's pure as- 
bestus." 

Then Phcebus of the silver bow, 
And Hebe, dimpled as a baby, 

And Dian with the breast of snow, 
Chaser and chased — and caught, it 
may be : 

One took the quiver from her back, 
One held the cap he spent the night 
in, 

And one a bit of bric-d-brae, 

Such as the gods themselves delight in. 

Then Mars, the foe of human kind, 
Strode up and showed his suit of ar- 
mor ; 

So none at last was left behind 
Save Venus, the celestial charmer. 

Poor Venus ! What had she to sell ? 

For all she looked so fresh and jaunty, 
Her wardrobe, as I blush to tell, 

Already seemed but quite too scanty. 

Her gems were sold, her sandals gone, — 
She always would be rash and 
flighty, — 

Her winter garments all in pawn, 
Alas for charming Aphrodite ! 



The lady of a thousand loves, 
The darling of the old religion, 

Had only left of all the doves 
That drew her car one fan-tailed pig- 
eon. 

How oft upon her finger-tips 

He perched, afraid of Cupid's arrow, 

Or kissed her on the rosebud lips, 
Like Roman Lesbia's loving sparrow .' 

" My bird, I want your train, " she cried ; 

" Come, don't let 's have a fuss about 
it; 
I '11 make it beauty's pet and pride, 

And you '11 be better off without it. 

" So vulgar ! Have you noticed, pray, 
An earthly belle or dashing bride walk, 

And how her flounces track her way, 
Like slimy serpents on the sidewalk ? 

"A lover's heart it quickly cools ; 

In mine it kindles up enough rage 
To wring their necks. How can such 
fools 

Ask men to vote for woman suffrage ? " 

The goddess spoke, and gently stripped 
Her bird of every caudal feather ; 

A strand of gold-bright hair she clipped, 
And bound the glossy plumes together, 

And lo, the Fan ! for beauty's hand, 
The lovely queen of beauty made it ; 

The price she named was hard to stand, 
But Venus smiled : the Hebrew paid it. 

Jove, Juno, Venus, where are you ? 

Mars, Mercury, Phcebus, Neptune, 
Saturn ? 
But o'er the world the Wandering Jew 

Has borne the Fan's celestial pattern. 

So everywhere we find the Fan, — 
In lonely isles of the Pacific, 



314 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



In farthest China and Japan, — 
Wherever suns are sudorific. 

Nay, even the oily Esquimaux 

In summer court its cooling breezes, — 

In fact, in every clime 't is so, 
No matter if it fries or freezes. 

And since from Aphrodite's dove 
The pattern of the fan was given, 

No wonder that it breathes of love 
And wafts the perfumed gales of 
heaven ! 

Before this new Pandora's gift 

In slavery woman's tyrant kept her, 

But now he kneels her glove to lift, — 
The fan is mightier than the sceptre. 

The tap it gives how arch and sly ! 
The breath it wakes how fresh and 
grateful ! 
Behind its shield how soft the sigh ! 
The whispered tale of shame how fate- 
ful ! 

Its empire shadows every throne 

And every shore that man is tost on ; 

It rules the lords of every zone, 

Nay, even the bluest blood of Boston ! 

But every one that swings to-night, 
Of fairest shape, from farthest region, 

May trace its pedigree aright 
To Aphrodite's fan-tailed pigeon. 

TO R. B. H. 

AT THE DINNER TO THE PRESIDENT, 
BOSTON, JUNE 26, 1877. 

How to address him ? awkward, it is 

true : 
Call him "Great Father," as the Eed 

Men do ? 
Borrow some title ? this is not the place 



That christens men Your Highness and 

Your Grace ; 
We tried such names as these awhile, 

you know, 
But left them off a century ago. 

His Majesty? We've had enough of 

that : 
Besides, that needs a crown ; he wears 

a hat. 
What if, to make the nicer ears content, 
We say His Honesty, the President ? 

Sir, we believed you honest, truthful, 

brave, 
When to your hands their precious trust 

we gave, 
And we have found you better than we 

knew, 
Braver, and not less honest, not less 

true ! 
So every heart has opened, every hand 
Tingles with welcome, and through all 

the land 
All voices greet you in one broad acclaim, 
Healer of strife ! Has earth a nobler 

name ? 

What phrases mean you do not need to 

learn ; 
We must be civil and they serve our 

turn : 
"Your most obedient humble" means 

— means what ? 
Something the well-bred signer just is 

not. 
Yet there are tokens, sir, you must be- 
lieve ; 
There is one language never can deceive : 
The lover knew it when the maiden 

smiled ; 
The mother knows it when she clasps 

her child ; 
Voices may falter, trembling lips turn 

pale, 



"THE SHIP OF STATE." — A FAMILY RECORD. 



315 



Words grope and stumble ; this will tell 
their tale 

Shorn of all rhetoric, bare of all pretence, 

But radiant, warm, with Nature's elo- 
quence. 

Look in our eyes ! Your welcome waits 
you there, — 

North, South, East, West, from all and 
everywhere ! 

"THE SHIP OF STATE." 

A SENTIMENT. 

The Ship of State ! above her skies are 

blue, 
But still she rocks a little, it is true, 
And there are passengers whose faces 

white 
Show they don't feel as happy as they 

might ; 
Yet on the whole her crew are quite 

content, 
Since its wdld fury the typhoon has 

spent, 
And willing, if her pilot thinks it best, 
To head a little nearer south by west. 
And this they feel : the ship came too 

near wreck, 
In the long quarrel for the quarter- 
deck, 
Now when she glides serenely on her 

way, 
— The shallows past where dread explo- 
sives lay, — 
The stiff obstructive's churlish game to 

try : 
Let sleeping dogs and still torpedoes 

lie ! 
And so I give you all the Ship of State ; 
Freedom's last venture is her priceless 

freight ; 
God speed her, keep her, bless her, while 

she steers 
Amid the breakers of unsounded years ; 



Lead her through danger's paths with 

even keel, 
And guide the honest hand that holds 

her wheel ! 
Woodstock, Conn., July 4, 1877. 

A FAMILY RECORD. 

WOODSTOCK, CONN., JULY 4, 1877. 

Not to myself this breath of vesper 
song, 

Not to these patient friends, this kindly 
throng, 

Not to this hallowed morning, though 
it be 

Our summer Christmas, Freedom's ju- 
bilee, 

When every summit, topmast, steeple, 
tower, 

That owns her empire spreads her starry 
flower, 

Its blood-streaked leaves in heaven's 
benignant dew 

Washed clean from every crimson stain 
they knew — 

No, not to these the passing thrills be- 
long 

That steal my breath to hush them- 
selves with song. 
These moments all are memory's ; I 
have come 

To speak with lips that rather should 
be dumb ; 

For what are words ? At every step I 
tread 

The dust that wore the footprints of the 
dead 

But for whose life my life had never 
known 

This faded vesture which it calls its own. 

Here sleeps my father's sire, and they 
who gave 

That earlier life here found their peace- 
ful grave. 



316 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



In days gone by I sought the hallowed 
ground ; 

Climbed yon long slope ; the sacred spot 
I found 

Where all unsullied lies the winter snow, 

"Where all ungathered Spring's pale vio- 
lets blow, 

And tracked from stone to stone the 
Saxon name 

That marks the blood I need not blush 
to claim, 

Blood such as warmed the Pilgrim sons 
of toil, \ 

Who held from God the charter of the 
soil. 
I come an alien to your hills and 
plains, 

Yet feel your birthright tingling in my 
veins ; 

Mine are this changing prospect's sun 
and shade, 

In full-blown summer's bridal pomp 
arrayed ; 

Mine these fair hillsides and the vales 
between ; 

Mine the sweet streams that lend their 
brightening green ; 

I breathed your air — the sunlit land- 
scape smiled ; 

I touch your soil — it knows it3 chil- 
dren's child ; 

Throned in my heart your heritage is 
mine ; 

I claim it all by memory's right divine ! 
Waking, I dream. Before my vacant 
eyes 

In long procession shadowy forms arise ; 

Far through the vista of the silent years 

I see a venturous band ; the pioneers, 

Who let the sunlight through the for- 
est's gloom, 

Who bade the harvest wave, the garden 
bloom. 

Hark! loud resounds the bare-armed 
settler's axe, — 



See where the stealthy panther left his 
tracks ! 

As fierce, as stealthy creeps the skulk- 
ing foe 

With stone - tipped shaft and sinew- 
corded bow ; 

Soon shall he vanish from his ancient 
reign, 

Leave his last cornfield to the coming 
train, 

Quit the green margin of the wave he 
drinks, 

For haunts that hide the wild-cat and 
the lynx. 

But who the Youth his glistening axe 

that swings 
To smite the pine that shows a hundred 

rings ? 
His features ? — something in his look 

I find 
That calls the semblance of my race to 

mind. 
His name ? — my own ; and that which 

goes before 
The same that once the loved disciple 

bore. 
Young, brave, discreet, the father of a line 
Whose voiceless lives have found a voice 

in mine ; 
Thinned by unnumbered currents though 

they be, 
Thanks for the ruddy drops I claim from 

thee! 

The seasons pass ; the roses come and 

go; 

Snows fall and melt ; the waters freeze 

and flow ; 
The boys are men ; the girls, grown tall 

and fair, 
Have found their mates ; a gravestone 

here and there 
Tells where the fathers lie ; the silvered 

hair 



A FAMILY RECORD. 



317 



Of some bent patriarch yet recalls the 

time 
That saw his feet the northern hillside 

climb, 
A pilgrim from the pilgrims far away, 
The godly men, the dwellers by the 

bay. 
On many a hearthstone burns the cheer- 
ful fire ; 
The schoolhouse porch, the heavenward 

pointing spire 
Proclaim in letters every eye can read, 
Knowledge and Faith, the new world's 

simple creed. 
Hush ! 't is the Sabbath's silence- 
stricken morn : 
No feet must wander through the tas- 

selled corn ; 
No inerry children laugh around the 

door, 
No idle playthings strew the sanded 

floor; 
The law of Moses lays its awful ban 
On all that stirs ; here comes the tith- 

ing-man ! 
At last the solemn hour of worship 

calls ; 
Slowly they gather in the sacred walls ; 
Man in. his strength and age with 

knotted staff, 
And boyhood aching for its week-day 

laugh, 
The toil-worn mother with the child 

she leads, 
The maiden, lovely in her golden 

beads, — 
The popish symbols round her neck she 

wears, 
But on them counts her lovers, not her 

prayers, — 
Those youths in homespun suits and 

ribboned queues, 
Whose hearts are beating in the high- 
backed pews. 
The pastor rises ; looks along the seats 



"With searching eye ; each wonted face 
he meets ; 

Asks heavenly guidance ; finds the chap- 
ter's place 

That tells some tale of Israel's stubborn 
race ; 

Gives out the sacred song; all voices 
join, 

For no quartette extorts their scanty 
coin ; 

Then while both hands their black- 
gloved palms display, 

Lifts his gray head, and murmurs " Let 
us pray ! " 
And pray he does ! as one that never 
fears 

To plead unanswered by the God that 
hears ; 

What if he dwells on many a fact as 
though 

Some things Heaven knew not which it 
ought to know, — 

Thanks God for all His favors past, and 

yet, 

Tells Him there 's something He must 

not forget ; 
Such are the prayers his people love to 

hear, — 
See how the Deacon slants his listening 

ear ! 
What ! look once more ! Nay, surely 

there I trace 
The hinted outlines of a well-known 

face ! 
Not those the lips for laughter to beguile, 
Yet round their corners lurks an embryo 

smile, 
The same on other lips my childhood 

knew 
That scarce the Sabbath's mastery could 

subdue. 
Him too my lineage gives me leave to 

claim, — 
The good, grave man that bears the 

Psalmist's name. 



318 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



And still in ceaseless round the sea- 
sons passed ; 
Spring piped her carol ; Autumn blew 

his blast ; 
Babes waxed to manhood ; manhood 

shrunk to age ; 
Life's worn-out players tottered off the 

stage ; 
The few are many ; boys have grown to 

men 
Since Putnam dragged the wolf from 

Pomfret's den ; 
Our new-old "Woodstock is a thriving 

town ; 
Brave are her children ; faithful to the 

crown ; 
Her soldiers' steel the savage redskin 

knows ; 
Their blood has crimsoned his Canadian 

snows. 
And now once more along the quiet vale 
Rings the dread call that turns the 

mothers pale ; 
Full well they know the valorous heat 

that runs 
In every pulse-beat of their loyal sons ; 
Who would not bleed in good King 

George's cause 
When England's lion shows his teeth 

and claws ? 
With glittering firelocks on the vil- 
lage green 
In proud array a martial band is seen ; 
You know what names those ancient 

rosters hold, — 
Whose belts were buckled when the 

drum-beat rolled, — 
But mark their Captain ! tell us, who 

is he? 
On his brown face that same old look I 

see ! 
Yes ! from the homestead's still retreat 

he came, 
Whose peaceful owner bore the Psalm- 
ist's name : 



The same his own. Well, Israel's glo- 
rious king 
Who struck the harp could also whirl 

the sling, — 
Breathe in his song a penitential sigh 
And smite the sons of Amalek hip and 

thigh : 
These shared their task ; one deaconed 

out the psalm, 
One slashed the scalping hell-hounds of 

Montcalm ; 
The praying father's pious work is done, 
Now sword in hand steps forth the 

fighting son. 
On many a field he fought in wilds 

afar; 
See on his swarthy cheek the bullet's 

scar ! 
There hangs a murderous tomahawk ; 

beneath, 
Without its blade, a knife's embroidered 

sheath ; 
Save for the stroke his trusty weapon 

dealt 
His scalp had dangled at their owner's 

belt; 
But not for him such fate ; he lived to see 
The bloodier strife that made our nation 

free, 
To serve with willing toil, with skilful 

hand, 
The war-worn saviors of the bleeding 

land. 
His wasting life to others' needs he 

gave, — 
Sought rest in home and found it in the 

grave. 
See where the stones life's brief memo- 
rials keep, 
The tablet telling where he "fell on 

sleep," — 
Watched by a winged cherub's rayless 

eye, — 
A scroll above that says we all must 

die, — 



A FAMILY RECORD. 



319 



Those saddening lines beneath, the 
" Night-Thoughts " lent : 

So stands the Soldier's, Surgeon's monu- 
ment. 

Ah ! at a glance my filial eye divines 

The scholar son in those remembered 
lines. 

The Scholar Son. His hand my foot- 
steps led. 

No more the dim unreal past I tread. 

thou whose breathing form was once 
so dear, 

Whose cheering voice was music to my 
ear, 

Art thou not with me as my feet pursue 

The village paths so well thy boyhood 
knew, 

Along the tangled margin of the stream 

Whose murmurs blended with thine in- 
fant dream, 

Or climb the hill, or thread the wooded 
vale, 

Or seek the wave where gleams yon dis- 
tant sail, 

Or the old homestead's narrowed bounds 
explore, 

Where sloped the roof that sheds the 
rains no more, 

Where one last relic still remains to tell 

Here stood thy home, — the memory- 
haunted well, 

Whose waters quench a deeper thirst 
than thine, 

Changed at my lips to sacramental 
wine, — 



Art thou not with me, as I fondly trace 

The scanty records of thine honored 
race, 

Call up the forms that earlier years have 
known, 

And spell the legend of each slanted 
stone ? 
With thoughts of thee my loving 
verse began, 

Not for the critic's curious eye to scan, 

Not for the many listeners, but the 
few 

Whose fathers trod the paths my fathers 
knew ; 

Still in my heart thy loved remembrance 
burns ; 

Still to my lips thy cherished name re- 
turns ; 

Could I but feel thy gracious presence 
near 

Amid the groves that once to thee were 
dear! 

Could but my trembling lips with mor- 
tal speech 

Thy listening ear for one brief moment 
reach ! 

How vain the dream ! The pallid voy- 
ager's track 

No sign betrays ; he sends no message 
back. 

No word from thee since evening's 
shadow fell 

On thy cold forehead with my long 
farewell, — 

Now from the margin of the silent sea, 

Take my last offering ere I cross to thee I 



FIRST VERSES. 

PHILLIPS ACADEMY, ANDOVER, MASS., 1824 OR 1825. 

TRANSLATION FROM THE /ENEID,-Book I. 

The god looked out upon the troubled deep 

"Waked into tumult from its placid sleep ; 

The flame of anger kindles in his eye 

As the wild waves ascend the lowering sky ; 

He lifts his head above their awful height 

And to the distant fleet directs his sight, 

Now borne aloft upon the billow's crest, 

Struck by the bolt or by the winds oppressed, 

And well he knew that Juno's vengeful ire 

Frowned from those clouds and sparkled in that fire. 

On rapid pinions as they whistled by 

He calls swift Zephyrus and Eurus nigh : 

Is this your glory in a noble line 

To leave your confines and to ravage mine ? 

Whom I — but let these troubled waves subside — 

Another tempest and I '11 quell your pride ! 

Go — bear our message to your master's ear, 

That wide as ocean I am despot here ; 

Let him sit monarch in his barren caves, 

I wield the trident and control the waves ! 

He said, and as the gathered vapors break 
The swelling ocean seemed a peaceful lake ; 
To lift their ships the graceful nymphs essayed 
And the strong trident lent its powerful aid ; 
The dangerous banks are sunk beneath the main, 
And the light chariot skims the unruffled plain. 
As when sedition fires the public mind, 
And maddening fury leads the rabble blind, 
The blazing torch lights up the dread alarm, 
Kage points the steel and fury nerves the arm, 
Then, if some reverend sage appear in sight, 
They stand — they gaze, and check their headlong flight* • 
He turns the current of each wandering breast 
And hushes every passion into rest, — 
Thus by the power of his imperial arm 
The boiling ocean trembled into caZm ; 
With flowing reins the father sped his way 
And smiled serene upon rekindled day. 



THE IRON GATE, 

AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE IRON GATE. 

HEAD AT THE BREAKFAST GIVEN IN 
HONOR OF DR. HOLMES'S SEVENTIETH 
BIRTHDAY BY THE PUBLISHERS OF 
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY, BOSTON, 
DECEMBER 3, 1879. 

Where is this patriarch you are kindly 
greeting ? 
Not unfamiliar to my ear his name, 
Nor yet unknown to many a joyous 
meeting 
In days long vanished, — is he still 
the same, 

Or changed by years, forgotten and for- 
getting, 
Dull - eared, dim - sighted, slow of 
speech and thought, 
Still o'er the sad, degenerate present 
fretting, 
Where all goes wrong, and nothing 
as it ought? 

Old age, the graybeard ! Well, indeed, 
I know him, — 
Shrunk, tottering, bent, of aches and 
ills the prey ; 
In sermon, story, fable, picture, poem, 
Oft have I met him from my earliest 
day: 

In my old ^Esop, toiling with his bun- 
dle,— 
His load of sticks, — politely asking 
Death, 

21 



Who comes when called for, — would 
he lug or trundle 
His fagot for him ? — he was scant of 
breath. 

And sad " Ecclesiastes, or the Preach- 
er," — 
Has he not stamped the image on my 
soul, 
In that last chapter, where the worn- 
out Teacher 
Sighs o'er the loosened cord, th« 
broken bowl ? 

Yes, long, indeed, I 've known him at a 
distance, 
And now my lifted door-latch shows 
him here ; 
I take his shrivelled hand without re- 
sistance, 
And find him smiling as his step draws 
near. 

What though of gilded baubles he be- 
reaves us, 
Dear to the heart of youth, to man* 
hood's prime ; 
Think of the calm he brings, the wealth 
he leaves us, 
The hoarded spoils, the legacies of 
time! 

Altars once flaming, still with incense 
fragrant, 
Passion's uneasy nurslings rocked 
asleep, 



822 



THE IRON GATE, AND OTHER POEMS. 



Hope's anchor faster, wild desire less 
vagrant, 
Life's flow less noisy, but the stream 
how deep ! 

Still as the silver cord gets worn and 
slender, 
Its lightened task-work tugs with les- 
sening strain, 
Hands get more helpful, voices, grown 
more tender, 
Soothe with their softened tones the 
slumberous brain. 

Youth longs and manhood strives, but 
age remembers, 
Sits by the raked-up ashes of the 
past, 
Spreads its thin hands above the whiten- 
ing embers 
That warm its creeping life-blood till 
the last. 

Dear to its heart is every loving token 
That comes unbidden ere its pulse 
grows cold, 
Ere the last lingering ties of life are 
broken, 
Its labors ended and its story told. 

Ah, while around us rosy youth re- 
joices, 
For us the sorrow-laden breezes 
sigh, 
And through the chorus of its jocund 
voices 
Throbs the sharp note of misery's 
hopeless cry. 

As on the gauzy wings of fancy fly- 
ing 
From some far orb I track our watery 
sphere, 
Home of the struggling, suffering, 
doubting, dying, 
The silvered globule seems a glisten- 
ing tear. 



But Nature lends her mirror of illusion 
To win from saddening scenes our 
age-dimmed eyes, 
And misty day-dreams blend in sweet 
confusion 
The wintry landscape and the sum- 
mer skies. 

So when the iron portal shuts behind 
us, 
And life forgets us in its noise and 
whirl, 
Visions that shunned the glaring noon- 
day find us, 
And glimmering starlight shows the 
gates of pearl. 

— I come not here your morning hour 
to sadden, 
A limping pilgrim, leaning on his 
staff, — 
I, who have never deemed it sin to 
gladden 
This vale of sorrows with a whole- 
some laugh. 

If word of mine another's gloom has 
brightened, 
Through my dumb lips the heaven- 
sent message came ; 
If hand of mine another's task has light- 
ened, 
It felt the guidance that it dares not 
claim. 

But, my gentle sisters, my brothers, 
These thick-sown snow-flakes hint of 
toil's release ; 
These feebler pulses bid me leave to 
others 
The tasks once welcome ; evening 
asks for peace. 

Time claims his tribute ; silence now ia 
golden ; 
Let me not vex the too long suffering 
lyre; 



VESTIGIA QUINQUE RETRORSUM. 



323 



Though to your love untiring still be- 
holden, 
The curfew tells me — cover up the 
fire. 

And now with grateful smile and ac- 
cents cheerful, 
And warmer heart than look or word 
can tell, 
In simplest phrase — these traitorous 
eyes are tearful — 
Thanks, Brothers, Sisters — Children 
— and farewell ! 

VESTIGIA QUINQUE RETROR- 
SUM. 

AN ACADEMIC POEM. 1 

1829-1879. 

While fond, sad memories all around 

us throng 
Silence were sweeter than the sweetest 

song; 
Yet when the leaves are green and 

heaven is blue, 
The choral tribute of the grove is due, 
And when the lengthening nights have 

chilled the skies, 
We fain would hear the song-bird ere 

he flies, 
And greet with kindly welcome, even 

as now, 
The lonely minstrel on his leafless bough. 

This is our golden year, — its golden 

day; 
Its bridal memories soon must pass 

away, 
Soon shall its dying music cease to ring 
And every year must loose some silver 

string, 
Till the last trembling chords no longer 

thrill, — 
Hands all at rest and hearts forever still. 

1 Read at the Commencement Dinner of the 
Alumni of Harvard University! June 26, 1879 



A few gray heads have joined the 

forming line ; 
We hear our summons, — " Class of 

'twenty-nine ! " 
Close on the foremost, and, Alas, how 

few! 
Are these " The Boys " our dear old 

Mother knew? 
Sixty brave swimmers. Twenty — 

something more — 
Have passed the stream and reached 

this frosty shore ! 

How near the banks these fifty years 
divide 

When memory crosses with a single 
stride ! 

'T is the first year of stern " Old Hick- 
ory " 's rule 

When our good Mother lets us out of 
school, 

Half glad, half sorrowing, it must be 
confessed, 

To leave her quiet lap, her bounteous 
breast, 

Armed with our dainty, ribbon-tied de- 
grees, 

Pleased and yet pensive, exiles and 
A. B.'s. 

Look back, O comrades, with your 
faded eyes, 

And see the phantoms as I bid them 
rise. 

Whose smile is that ? Its pattern Na- 
ture gave, 

A sunbeam dancing in a dimpled wave ; 

Kirkland alone such grace from 
Heaven could win, 

His features radiant as the soul with- 
in ; 

That smile would let him through Saint 
Peter's gate 

While sad-eyed martyrs had to stand 
and wait. 

Here flits mercurial Farrar ; standing 
there. 



324 



THE IRON GATE, AND OTHER POEMS. 



See mild, benignant, cautious, learned 

Ware, 
And sturdy, patient, faithful, honest 

Hedge, 
Whose grinding logic gave our wits their 

edge; 
Tichnor, with honeyed voice and courtly 

grace ; 
And Willard larynxed like a double 

bass; 
And Channing with his bland, superior 

look, 
Cool as a moonbeam on a frozen brook, 
While the pale student, shivering in his 

shoes, 
Sees from his theme the turgid rhetoric 

ooze ; 
And the born soldier, fate decreed to 

wreak 
His martial manhood on a class in 

Greek, 
Popkin ! How that explosive name re- 
calls 
The grand old Busby of our ancient 

halls ! 
Such faces looked from Skippon's grim 

platoons, 
Such figures rode with Ireton's stout 

dragoons ; 
He gave his strength to learning's gen- 
tle charms, 
But every accent sounded " Shoulder 

arms ! " 

Names, — empty names ! Save only 

here and there 
Some white-haired listener, dozing in 

his chair, 
Starts at the sound he often used to 

hear, 
And upward slants his Sunday-sermon 

ear. 

And we — our blooming manhood we 
regain ; 
Smili»g we join the long Commence- 
ment train, 



One point first battled in discussion 

hot, — 
Shall we wear gowns ? and settled : We 

will not. 
How strange the scene, — that noisy 

boy-debate 
Where embryo-speakers learn to rule 

the State ! 
This broad-browed youth, 1 sedate and 

sooer-eyed, 
Shall wear the ermined robe at Taney's 

side; 
And he, the stripling, 2 smooth of face 

and slight, 
Whose slender form scarce intercepts 

the light, 
Shall rule the Bench where Parsons 

gave the law, 
And sphynx-like sat uncouth, majestic 

Shaw ! 
Ah, many a star has shed its fatal ray 
On names we loved — our brothers — 

where are they? 
Nor these alone; our hearts in silence 

claim 
Names not less dear, unsyllabled by 

fame. 

How brief the space ! and yet it sweeps 

us back 
Far, far along our new-born history's 

track ! 
Five strides like this ; — the Sachem 

rules the land ; 
The Indian wigwams cluster where we 

stand. 

The second. — Lo ! a scene of deadly 

strife — 
A nation struggling into infant life ; 
Not yet the fatal game at Yorktown 

won 
Where falling Empire fired its sunsefc 

gun. 

1 Benjamin Robbins Curtis. 
s George Tyler Bigelow 



VESTIGIA QUINQUE RETRORSUM. 



325 



Langdon sits restless in the ancient 
chair, — 

Harvard's grave Head, — these echoes 
heard his prayer 

When from yon mansion, dear to mem- 
ory still, 

The banded yeomen marched for Bun- 
ker's Hill. 

Count on the grave triennial's thick- 
starred roll 

What names were numbered on the 
lengthening scroll — 

Not unfamiliar in our ears they ring — 

Winthrop, Hale, Eliot, Everett, Dexter, 
Tyng. 

Another stride. Once more at 'twenty- 
nine, — 

God save King George, the Second 
of his line ! 

And is Sir Isaac living? Nay, not 
so, — 

He followed Flamsteed two short years 
ago, — 

And what about the little hump-backed 
man 

Who pleased the bygone days of good 
Queen Anne ? 

What, Pope ? another book he 's just 
put out — 

" The Dunciad " — witty, but profane, 
no doubt. 

Where 's Cotton Mather ? he was always 
here. — 

And so he would be, but he died last 
year. 

Who is this preacher our Northampton 
claims, 

Whose rhetoric blazes with sulphureous 
flames 

And torches stolen from Tartarean 
mines ? 

Edwards, the salamander of divines. 

A deep, strong nature, pure and unde- 
nted ; 

Faith, firm as his who stabbed his sleep- 
ing child ; 



Alas for him who blindly strays apart 
And seeking God has lost his human 

heart ! 
Fall where they might, no flying cinders 

caught 
These sober halls where Wadsworth 

ruled and taught. 

One footstep more ; the fourth recede 
ing stride 

Leaves the round century on the nearer 
side. 

God save King Charles ! God 
knows that pleasant knave 

His grace will find it hard enough to 
save. 

Ten years and more, and now the 
Plague, the Fire, 

Talk of all tongues, at last begin to 
tire; 

One fear prevails, all other frights for- 
got, — 

White lips are whispering, — hark ! 
The popish Plot ! 

Happy New Eugland, from such trou- 
bles free 

In health and peace beyond the stormy 
sea! 

No Romish daggers threat her chil- 
dren's throats, 

No gibbering nightmare mutters " Titus 
Oates ; " 

Philip is slain, the Quaker graves are 
green, 

Not yet the witch has entered on the 
scene ; 

Happy our Harvard ; pleased her grad- 
uates four ; 

Urian Oakes the name their parch- 
ments bore. 

Two centuries past, our hurried feet 

arrive 
At the last footprint of the scanty five ; 
Take the fifth stride; our wandering 

eyes explore 
A tangled forest on a trackless shore ; 



326 



THE IRON GATE, AND OTHER POEMS. 



Here, where we stand, the savage sor- 
cerer howls, 

The wild cat snarls, the stealthy gray 
wolf prowls, 

The slouching bear, perchance the tramp- 
ling moose 

Starts the brown squaw and scares her 
red pappoose ; 

At every step the lurking foe is near ; 

flis Demons reign ; God has no temple 
here ! 

Lift up your eyes ! behold these pic- 
tured walls; 

Look where the flood of western glory 
falls 

Through the great sunflower disk of 
blazing panes 

In ruby, saffron, azure, emerald stains ; 

With reverent step the marble pavement 
tread 

Where our proud Mother's martyr-roll 
is read ; 

See the great halls that cluster, gather- 
ing round 

This lofty shrine with holiest memories 
crowned ; 

See the fair Matron in her summer 
bower ; 

Fresh as a rose in bright perennial 
flower ; 

Read on her standard, always in the 
van, 

" Truth," — the one word that makes 
a slave a man ; 

Think whose the hands that fed her 
altar- fires, 

Then count the debt we owe our scholar- 
sires ! 

Brothers, farewell ! the fast declining 
ray 

Fades to the twilight of our golden day ; 

Some lesson yet our wearied brains may 
learn, 

Borne leaves, perhaps, in life's thin vol- 
ume turn. 



How few they seem as in our waning 

age 
We count them backwards to the title* 

page! 
Oh leflis trust with holy men of old 
Not all the story here begun is told ; 
So the tired spirit, waiting to be freed, 
On life's last leaf with tranquil eye shall 

read 
By the pale glimmer of the torch re- 

versed, 
Not Finis, but The End of Volume 

First 1 



MY AVIARY. 

Through my north window, in the 
wintry weather, — 
My airy oriel on the river shore, — 
I watch the sea-fowl as they flock to- 
gether 
Where late the boatman flashed his 
dripping oar. 

The gull, high floating, like a sloop un- 
laden, 
Lets the loose water waft him as it 
will; 
The duck, round-breasted as a rustic 
maiden, 
Paddles and plunges, busy -busy still. 

I see the solemn gulls in council sit- 
ting 
On some broad ice-floe, pondering long 
and late, 
While overhead the home-bound ducks 
are flitting, 
And leave the tardy conclave in de- 
bate, 

Those weighty questions in their breasts 
revolving 
Whose deeper meaning science nevei 
learns, 



The sea-fowl as they flock together 




SfeWu, ftVtfifi»\W^ 



MY AVIARY. 



327 



Till at some reverend elder's look dis- 
solving, 
The speechless senate silently ad- 
journs. 

But when along tho waves the shrill 
north-easter 
Shrieks through the laboring coaster's 
shrouds " Beware ! " 
The pale bird, kindling like a Christmas 
feaster 
When some wild chorus shakes the 
vinous air, 

Flaps from the leaden wave in fierce re- 
joicing, 
Feels heaven's dumb lightning thrill 
his torpid nerves, 
Now on the blast his whistling plumage 
poising, 
Now wheeling, whirling in fantastic 
curves. 

Such is our gull ; a gentleman of leisure, 
Less fleshed than feathered ; bagged 
you '11 find him such ; 
His virtue silence ; his employment 
pleasure ; 
Not bad to look at, and not good for 
much. 

What of our duck ? He has some high- 
bred cousins, — 
His Grace the Canvas-back, My Lord 
the Brant, — 
Anas and Anser, — both served up by 
dozens, 
At Boston's Rocker, half-way to Na- 
hant. 

As for himself, he seems alert and thriv- 
ing,— 
Grubs up a living somehow — what, 
who knows 1 
Crabs ? mussels 1 weeds ? — Look quick . 
there 's one just diving ! 
Flop ! Splash ! his white breast glis- 
tens — down he goes \ 



And while he 's under — just about a 
minute — 
I take advantage of the fact to 
say 
His fishy carcase has no virtue in it 
The gunning idiot's worthless hire to 
pay. 

He knows you ! " sportsmen " from 
suburban alleys, 
Stretched under seaweed in the treach- 
erous punt ; 
Knows every lazy, shiftless lout that 
sallies 
Forth to waste powder — as he says, 
to '■ hunt." 

I watch you with a patient satisfac- 
tion, 
Well pleased to discount your pre- 
destined luck ; 
The float that figures in your sly trans- 
action 
Will carry back a goose, but not a 
duck. 

Shrewd is our bird ; not easy to outwit 
him ! 
Sharp is the outlook of those pin-head 
eyes; 
Still, he is mortal and a shot may hit 
him, 
One cannot always miss him if he 
tries. 

Look ! there 's a young one, dreaming 
not of danger ; 
Sees a flat log come floating down 
the stream ; 
Stares undismayed upon the harmless 
stranger ; 
Ah ! were all strangers harmless as 
they seem ! 

Habet ! a leaden shower his breast has 
shattered ; 
Vainly he flutters, not again to 
rise; 



328 



THE IRON GATE, AND OTHER POEMS. 



His soft white plumes along the waves 
are scattered ; 
Helpless the wing that braved the 
tempest lies. 

He sees his comrades high above him 
flying 
To seek their nests among the island 
reeds ; 
Strong is their flight ; all lonely he is 
lying 
Washed by the crimsoned water as 
he bleeds. 

O Thou who carest for the falling spar- 
row, 
Canst Thou the sinless sufferer's pang 
forget 1 
Or is Thy dread account-,book's page so 
narrow 
Its one long column scores Thy crea- 
tures' debt 1 

Poor gentle guest, by nature kindly 
cherished, 
A world grows dark with thee in 
blinding death ; 
One little gasp — thy universe has per- 
ished, 
Wreeked by the idle thief who stole 
thy breath ! 

Is this the whole sad story of creation, 
Lived by its breathing myriads o'er 
and o'er, — 
One glimpse of day, then black annihi- 
lation, — 
A sunlit passage to a sunless shore ? 

Give back our faith, ye mystery-solving 
lynxes ! 
Robe us once more in heaven-aspiring 
creeds ! 
Happier was dreaming Egypt with her 
sphynxes, 
The stony convent with its cross and 
beads ! 



How often gazing where a bird repose^, 

Rocked on the wavelets, drifting with 

the tide, 

I lose myself in strange metempsychosis 

And float a sea-fowl at a sea-fowl's 

side. 

From rain, hail, snow in feathery mar 
tie muffled, 
Clear-eyed, strong-limbed, with keen- 
est sense to hear 
My mate soft murmuring, who, with 
plumes unruffled, 
Where'er I wander still is nestling 
near ; 

The great blue hollow like a garment 
o'er me ; 
Space all unmeasured, unrecorded 
time; 
While seen with inward eye moves on 
before me 
Thought's pictured train in wordless 
pantomime. 

— A voice recalls me. — From my win- 
dow turning 
I find myself a plumeless biped still; 
No beak, no claws, no sign of wings 
discerning, — 
In fact with nothing bird-like but my 
quill. 

ON THE THRESHOLD. 

INTRODUCTION TO A COLLECTION OF 
POEMS BY DIFFERENT AUTHORS. 

An usher standing at the door 

I show my white rosette ; 
A smile of welcome, nothing more, 

Will pay my trifling debt ; 
Why should I bid you idly wait 
Like lovers at the swinging gate ? 

Can I forget the wedding guest? 
The veteran of the sea ? 



AT THE PAPYRUS CLUB. 



321) 



In vain the listener smites his breast, — 

" There was a ship," cries he ! 
Psor fasting victim, stunned and pale 
He needs must listen to the tale. 

He sees the gilded throng within, 
The sparkling goblets gleam, 

The music and the merry din 
Through every window stream, 

But there he shivers in the cold 

Till all the crazy dream is told. 

Not mine the graybeard's glittering eye 

That held his captive still 
To hold my silent prisoners by 

And let me have in v will ; 
Nay, I were like the three-years' child, 
To think you could be so beguiled! 

My verse is but the curtain's fold 
That hides the painted scene, 

The mist by morning's ray unrolled 
That veils the meadow's green, 

The cloud that needs must drift away 

To show the rose of opening day. 

See, from the tinkling rill you hear 

In hollowed palm 1 bring 
These scanty drops, but ah, how near 

The founts that heavenward spring! 
Thus, open wide the gates are thrown 
And founts and flowers are all your 
own! 



TO GEORGE PEABODY. 

DANVERS, 1866. 

Bankrupt ! our pockets inside out ! 

Empty of words to speak his praises ! 
Worcester and Webster up the spout ! 

Dead broke of laudatory phrases ! 
Yet why with flowery speeches' tease, 

With vain superlatives distress him 1 ? 
Has language better words than these ? 

The friend of all his race, God 
bless him ! 



A simple prayer — but words more 
sweet 
By human lips were never uttered, 
Since Adam left the country seat 
Where angel wings around him flut- 
tered. 
The old look on with tear-dimmed eyes. 

The children cluster to caress him, 
And every voice unbidden cries 
The friend of all his race, God 
bless him ! 

AT THE PAPYRUS CLUB. 

A lovely show for eyes to see 

I looked upon this morning — 
A bright-hued, feathered company 

Of nature's own adorning ; 
But ah! those minstrels would not sing 

A listening ear while I lent — 
The lark sat still and preened his 
wing — 

The nightingale was silent ; 
I longed for what they gave me not — 

Their warbliugs sweet and fluty, 
But grateful still for all I got 

I thanked them for their beauty. 

A fairer vision meets my view 

Of Claras, Margarets, Marys, 
In silken robes of varied hue, 

Like bluebirds and canaries — 
The roses blush, the jewels gleam, 

The silks and satins glisten, 
The black eyes flash, the blue eyes 
beam, 

We look — and then we listen : 
Behold the flock we cage to-night — 

Was ever such a capture ? 
To see them is a pure delight — 

To hear them — ah ! what rapture I 

Methinks I hear Delilah's laugh 
At Samson bound in fetters ; — 

" We captured ! " shrieks each lovelier 
half, 
" Men think themselves our betters 1 



830 



THE IRON GATE, AND OTHER POEMS. 



We push the bolt, we turn the key 

On warriors, poets, sages, 
Too happy, all of them, to be 

Locked in our golden cages ! " 

Beware ! the boy with bandaged eyes 

Has flung away his blinder; 
He 's lost his mother — so he cries — 

And here he knows he 'll find her : 
The rogue ! 't is but a new device — 

Look out for flying arrows 
Whene'er the birds of Paradise 

Are perched amid the sparrows ! 



FOR WHITTIER'S SEVENTIETH 
BIRTHDAY. 

DECEMBER 17, 1877. 

I believe that the copies of verses I 've 
spun, 

Like Scheherazade's tales, are a thou- 
sand and one, — 

You remember the story, — those morn- 
ings in bed, — 

'T was the turn of a copper, — a tale or 
a head. 

A doom like Scheherazade's falls upon 
me 

In a mandate as stern as the Sultan's 
decree : 

I 'm a florist in verse, and what would 
people say 

If I came to a banquet without my bou- 
quet? 

It is trying, no doubt, when the com- 
pany knows 

Just the look and the smell of each lily 
and rose, 

The green of each leaf in the sprigs that 
I bring, 

And the shape of the bunch and the 
knot of the string. 



Yes, — "the style is the man," and the 

nib of one's pen 
Makes the same mark at twenty, and 

three-score and ten ; 
It is so in all matters, if truth may be 

told ; 
Let one look at the cast he can tell you 

the mould. 

How we all know each other ! no use in 
disguise ; 

Through the holes in the mask comes 
the flash of the eyes ; 

We can tell by his — somewhat — each 
one of our tribe, 

As we know the old hat which we can- 
not describe. 

Though in Hebrew, in Sanscrit, in 

Choctaw you write, 
Sweet singer who gave us the Voices of 

Night, 
Though in buskin or slipper your song 

may be shod, 
Or the velvety verse that Evangeline trod, 

We shall say " You can't cheat us, — 

we know it is you," 
There is one voice like that, but there 

cannot be two, 
Maestro, whose chant like the dulcimer 

rings : 
And the woods will be hushed while the 

nightingale sings. 

And he, so serene, so majestic, so true, 
Whose temple hypasthral the planets 

shine through, 
Let us catch but five words from that 

mystical pen, 
We should know our one sage from all 

children of men. 

And he whose bright image no distance 

can dim, 
Through a hundred disguises we can't 

mistake him. 



TWO SONNETS: HARVARD. 



331 



Whose play is all earnest, whose wit is 
the edge 

(With a beetle behind) of a sham-split- 
ting wedge. 

Do you know whom we send you, Hidal- 
gos of Spain ? 

Do you know your old friends when you 
see them again ? 

Hosea was Sancho ! you Dons of Ma- 
drid, 

But Sancho that wielded the lance of 
the Cid ! 

And the wood-thrush of Essex, — you 

know whom I mean, 
Whose song echoes round us while he 

sits unseen, 
Whose heart-throbs of verse through 

our memories thrill 
Like a breath from the wood, like a 

breeze from the hill, 

So fervid, so simple, so loving, so pure, 
We hear but one strain and our verdict 

is sure, — 
Thee cannot elude us, — no further we 

search, — 
'T is Holy George Herbert cut loose 

from his church ! 

We think it the voice of a seraph that 

sings, — 
Alas ! we remember that angels have 

wings, — 
What story is this of the day of his 

birth 1 
Let him live to a hundred ! we want 

him on earth ! 

One life has been paid him (in gold) by 
the sun ; 

One account has been squared and an- 
other begun ; 

But he never will die if he lingers below 

Till we Ve paid him in love half the 
balance we owe ! 



TWO SONNETS; HARVARD. 1 

" CHRISTO ET ECCLESI^E." 1700. 

To God's anointed and his choseh 

FLOCK : 

So ran the phrase the black-robed 

conclave chose 
To guard the sacred cloisters that 
arose 
Like David's altar on Moriah's rock. 
Unshaken still those ancient arches 
mock 
The ram's horn summons of the windy 

foes 
Who stand like Joshua's army while 
it blows 
And wait to see them toppling with the 

shock. 
Christ and the Church. Their church, 
whose narrow door 
Shut out the many, who if over bold 
Like hunted wolves were driven from 
the fold, 
Bruised with the flails those godly zeal- 
ots bore, 
Mindful that Israel's altar stood of old 
Where echoed once Araunah's thresh- 
ing-floor. 

1643. "Veritas." 1878. 

Truth : So the frontlet's older legend 
ran, 
On the brief record's opening page 

displayed ; 
Not yet those clear-eyed scholars were 
afraid 
Lest the fair fruit that wrought the woe 

of man 
By far Euphrates, — where our sire 
began 
His search for truth, and seeking, was 

betrayed, — 
Might work new treason in their 
forest shade, 

1 At the meeting of the New York Harvard 
Club, February 21, 1878. 



332 



THE IRON GATE, AND OTHER POEMS. 



Doubling the curse that brought life's 

shortened span. 
Nurse of the future, daughter of the 
past, 
That stern phylactery best becomes 

thee now : 
Lift to the morning star thy marble 
brow ! 
Cast thy brave truth on every warring 
blast ! 
Stretch thy white hand to that forbid- 
den bough, 
And let thine earliest symbol be thy 
last! 



THE LAST SURVIVOR.* 

Yes ! the vacant chairs tell sadly we 

are going, going fast, 
And the thought comes strangely o'er 

me who will live to be the last ? 
When the twentieth century's sunbeams 

climb the far-off eastern hill 
With his ninety winters burdened will 

he greet the morning still ? 

Will he stand with Harvard's nurslings 

when they hear their mother's 

call 
And the old and young are gathered in 

the many alcove d hall ? 
Will he answer to the summons when 

they range themselves in line 
And the young mustachioed marshal 

calls out " Class of 29 " ? 

Methinks I see the column as its length- 
ened ranks appear 

In the sunshine of the morrow of the 
nineteen hundredth year ; 

Through the yard 't is creeping, wind- 
ing, by the walls of dusky red — 

What shape is that which totters at the 
long procession's head ? 

1 Annual meeting of the Class of 1829, Jan- 
uary 10, 1878. 



Who knows this ancient graduate of 
fourscore years and ten, — 

What place he held, what name he bore 
among the sons of men ? 

So speeds the curious question ; its an- 
swer travels slow ; 

" 'T is the last of sixty classmates of 
seventy years ago." 

His figure shows but dimly, his face I 

scarce can see, — 
There 's something that reminds me, — 

it looks like — is it he ? 
He ? Who ? No voice may whisper 

what wrinkled brow shall claim 
The wreath of stars that circles our last 

survivor's name. 

Will he be some veteran minstrel, left 

to pipe in feeble rhyme 
All the stories and the glories of our 

gay and golden time 1 
Or some quiet, voiceless brother in whose 

lonely loving breast 
Fond memory broods in silence, like a 

dove upon her nest ? 

Will it be some old Emeritus, who taught 

so long ago 
The boys that heard him lecture have 

heads as white as snow ? 
Or a pious, painful preacher, holding 

forth from year to year 
Till his colleague got a colleague whom 

the young folks flocked to hear ? 

Will it be a rich old merchant in a 

square-tied white cravat, 
Or select-man of a village in a pre-his- 

toric hat ? 
Will his dwelling be a mansion in a 

marble-fronted row, 
Or a homestead by a hillside where the 

huckleberries grow ? 

I can see our one survivor, sitting lonely 
by himself, — 



THE LAST SURVIVOR. 



333 



All his college text-books round him, 
ranged in order on their shelf ; 

There are classic "interliners " filled 
with learning's choicest pith, 

Each cum notis variorum, quas recensuit 
doctus Smith; 

Physics, metaphysics, logic, mathemat- 
ics — all the lot — 

Every wisdom-crammed octavo he has 
mastered and forgot, 

With the ghosts of dead Professors 
standing guard beside them all ; 

And ihe room is full of shadows which 
their lettered backs recall. 

How the past spreads out in vision with 

its far receding train, 
Like a long embroidered arras in the 

chambers of the brain, 
From opening manhood's morning when 

first we learned to grieve 
To the fond regretful moments of our 

sorrow saddened eve ! 

What early shadows darkened our idle 

summer's joy 
When death snatched roughly from us 

that lovely bright-eyed boy ! l 
The years move swiftly onwards ; the 

deadly shafts fall fast, — 
Till all have dropped around him — lo, 

there he stands, — the last ! 

Their faces flit before him, some rosy- 
hued and fair, 

Some strong in iron manhood, some 
worn with toil and care, 

Their smiles no more shall greet him on 
cheeks with pleasure flushed ! 

The friendly hands are folded, the pleas- 
ant voices hushed ! 



1 William Sturgis. 



My picture sets me dreaming ; alas 1 

and can it be 
Those two familiar faces we never more 

may see ? 
In every entering footfall I think them 

drawing near, 
With every door that opens I say, " At 

last they're here ! " 

The willow bends unbroken when an- 
gry tempests blow, 

The stately oak is levelled and all its 
strength laid low ; 

So fell that tower of manhood, un- 
daunted, patient, strong, 

White with the gathering snow-flakes, 
who faced the storm so long. 2 

And he, 3 — what subtle phrases their 
varying light must blend 

To paint as each remembers our many- 
featured friend ! 

His wit a flash auroral that laughed in 
every look, 

His talk a sunbeam broken on the rip- 
ples of a brook, 

Or, fed from thousand sources, a foun- 
tain's glittering jet, 

Or careless handfuls scattered of dia- 
mond sparks unset, 

Ah, sketch him, paint him, mould him 
in every shape you will, 

He was himself — the only — the one 
unpictured still ! 

Farewell ! our skies are darkened and 

yet the stars will shine, 
We '11 close our ranks together and still 

fall into line 
Till one is left, one only, to mourn for 

all the rest ; 
And Heaven bequeath their memories 

to him who loves us best ! 

8 Francis B. Crowninshield. 
8 George T. Davis. 



334 



THE IRON GATE, AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE ARCHBISHOP 
BLAS. 1 



AND GIL 



A MODERNIZED VERSION. 

I don't think I feel much older ; I 'm 

aware I 'm rather gray, 
But so are many young folks ; I meet 

'em every day. 
I confess I 'm more particular in what 

I eat and drink, 
But one's taste improves with culture ; 

that is all it means, I think. 

Can you read as once you used to ? 

Well, the printing is so bad, 
No young folks' eyes can read it like the 

books that once we had. 
Are you quite as quick of hearing ? Please 

to say that once again. 
Don't I use plain words, your Reverence ? 

Yes, I often use a cane, 

Bnt it's not because I need it, — no, 

I always liked a stick ; 
And as one might lean upon it, 'tis as 

well it should be thick. 
Oh, I 'm smart, I 'm spry, I 'm lively, — 

I can walk, yes, that I can, 
On the days I feel like walking, just as 

well as you, young man! 

Don't you get a little sleepy after dinner 

every day ? 
Well, I doze a little, sometimes, but that 

always was my way. 
Don't you cry a little easier than some 

twenty years ago ? 
Well, my heart is very tender, but I 

think 't was always so. 

Don't you Jin d it sometimes happens that 

you cant recall a name ? 
Yes, — I know such lots of people, — 

but my memory 's not to blame. 

1 Annual Meeting of the Class of 1829, Jan- 
uary 6, 1879. 



What ! You think my memory 's fail- 
ing ! Why, it's just as bright 
and clear, — 

I remember my great-grandma ! She's 
been dead these sixty year ! 

Is your voice a little trembly ? Well, it 

may be, now and then, 
But I write as well as ever with a good 

old-fashioned pen ; 
It 's the Gillotts make the trouble, — 

not at all my finger-ends, — 
That is why my hand looks shaky when 

I sign for dividends. 

Don't you stoop a little, walking ? It 's 

a way I 've always had, 
I have always been round - shouldered 

ever since I was a lad. 
Don't you hate to tie your shoe-strings? 

Yes, I own it — that is true. 
Don't you tell old stories over ? I am not 

aware I do. 

Don't you stay at home of evenings? 
Don't you love a cushioned seat 

In a corner, by the fireside, with your slip- 
pers on your feet ? 

Don't you wear warm fleecy flannels ? 
Don't you muffle up your throat ? 

Don't you like to have one help you when 
you 're putting on your coat ? 

Don't you like old books you 've dogs- 
eared, you can't remember when ? 

Don't you call it late at nine o'clock and 
go to bed at ten % 

How many cronies can you count of all 
you used to know 

Who called you by your Christian name 
some fifty years ago ? 

How look the prizes to you that used to 

fire your brain ? 
You 've reared your mound — how high t* 

it above the level plain ? 



THE SHADOWS. 



335 



You 've drained the brimming golden cup 
that made your fancy reel, 

You 've slept the giddy potion off, — now 
tell us how you feel ! 

You 've watched the harvest ripening till 

every stem was cropped, 
You 've seen the rose of beauty fade till 

every petal dropped, 
You 've told your thought, you 've done 

your task, you 've tracked your dial 

round, 
— I backing down ! Thank Heaven, 

not yet ! I 'm hale and brisk and 

sound, 

And good for many a tussle, as you 

shall live to see ; 
My shoes are not quite ready yet, — 

don't think you 're rid of me ! 
Old Parr was in his lusty prime when 

he was older far, 
And where will you be if I live to beat 

old Thomas Parr ? 

Ah well, — I know, — at every age life has 

a certain charm, — 
You 're going ? Come, permit me, please, 

1 beg you '11 take my arm. 
I take your arm ! Why take your arm? 

I 'd thank you to be told 
I *m old enough to walk alone, but not 

so very old ! 



THE SHADOWS. 1 

" How many have gone ? " was the ques- 
tion of old 
Ere Time our bright ring of its jewels 
bereft ; 
Alas ! for too often the death-bell has 
tolled, 
And the question we ask is, "How 
many are left ? " 

1 Annual Meeting of the Glass of 1829, Janu- 
ITy8,1880. 



Bright sparkled the wine ; there were 
fifty that quaffed ; 
For a decade had slipped and had 
taken but three. 
How they frolicked and - sung, how they 
shouted and laughed, 
Like a school full of boys from their 
benches set free ! 

There were speeches and toasts, there 
were stories and rhymes, 
The hall shook its sides with their 
merriment's noise ; 
As they talked and lived over the col- 
lege-day times, — 
No wonder they kept their old name 
of " The Boys " ! 

The seasons moved on in their rhyth- 
mical flow 
With mornings like maidens that 
pouted or smiled, 
With the bud and the leaf and the fruit- 
and the snow, 
And the year - books of Time in his 
alcoves were piled. 

There were forty that gathered where 
fifty had met ; 
Some locks had got silvered, some 
lives had grown sere, 
But the laugh of the laughers was lusty 
as yet, 
And the song of the singers rose ring- 
ing and clear. 

Still flitted the years ; there were thirty 
that came ; 
" The Boys " they were still and they 
answered their call ; 
There were foreheads of care, but the 
smiles were the same 
And the chorus rang loud through 
the garlanded hall. 

The hour-hand moved on, and they 
gathered again ; 



336 



THE IRON GATE, AND OTHER POEMS. 



There were twenty that joined in the 

hymn that was sung, 
But ah ! for our song-bird we listened in 

vain, — 
The crystalline tones like a seraph's 

that rung ! 

How narrow the circle that holds us to- 
night ! 
How many the loved ones that greet 
us no more, 
As we meet like the stragglers that 
come from the right, 
Like the mariners flung from a wreck 
on the shore ! 

We look through the twilight for those 
we have lost ; 
The stream rolls between us, and yet 
they seem near ; 
Already outnumbered by those who 
have crossed, 
Our band is transplanted, its home is 
not here ! 

They smile on us still — is it only a 
dream ? — 
While fondly or proudly their names 
we recall — 
They beckon — they come — they are 
crossing the stream — 
Lo ! the Shadows ! the Shadows ! 
room — room for them all ! 



THE COMING ERA. 

They tell us that the Muse is soon to 
ly hence, 
Leaving the bowers of song that were 
once dear, 
Her robes bequeathing to her sister, 
Science, 
The groves of Pindus for the axe to 
clear. 



Optics will claim the wandering eye oi 
fancy, 
Physics will grasp imagination's 
wings, 
Plain fact exorcise fiction's necromancy, 
The workshop hammer where the 
minstrel sings. 

No more with laughter at Thalia's frolics 
Our eyes shall twinkle till the tears 
run down, 
But in her place the lecturer on hy- 
draulics 
Spout forth his watery science to the 
town. 

No more our foolish passions and affec- 
tions 
The tragic Muse with mimic grief 
shall try, 
But, nobler far, a course of vivisec- 
tions 
Teach what it costs a tortured brute 
to die. 

The unearthed monad, long in buried 
rocks hid, 
Shall tell the secret whence our being 
came; 
The chemist show us death is life's 
black oxide, 
Left when the breath no longer fans 
its flame. 

Instead of cracked - brained poets in 
their attics 
Filling thin volumes with their flow- 
ery talk, 
There shall be books of wholesome 
mathematics ; 
The tutor with his blackboard and his 
chalk. 

No longer bards with madrigal and son- 
net 
Shall woo to moonlight walks the rib 
boned sex, 



m RESPONSE. 



337 



But side by side the beaver and the bon- 
net 
Stroll, calmly pondering on some 
problem's x. 

The sober bliss of serious calculation 
Shall mock the trivial joys that fancy 
drew, 
And, oh, the rapture of a solved equa- 
tion, — - 
One self-same answer on the lips of 
two ! 

So speak in solemn tones our youthful 
sages, 
Patient, severe, laborious, slow, ex- 
act, 
As o'er creation's protoplasmic pages 
They browse and munch the thistle 
crops of fact. 

And yet we 've sometimes found it 
rather pleasant 
To dream again the scenes that 
Shakespeare drew, — 
To walk the hill-side with the Scottish 
peasant 
Among the daisies wet with morn- 
ing's dew ; 

To leave awhile the daylight of the 
real, 
Led by the guidance of the master's 
hand, 
For the strange radiance of the far 
ideal, — 
" The light that never was on sea or 
land." 

Well, Time alone can lift the future's 
curtain, — 
Science may teach our children all 
she knows, 
But Love will kindle fresh young hearts, 
't is certain, 
And June will not forget her blush- 
ing rose. 

22 



And so, in spite of all that Time is 
bringing, — 
Treasures of truth and miracles of art, 
Beauty and Love will keep the poet sing- 
ing, 
And song still live, the science of the 
heart. 



IN RESPONSE. 1 

Such kindness ! the scowl of a cynic 
would soften, 
His pulse beat its way to some elo- 
quent words, 
Alas ! my poor accents have echoed too 
often, 
Like that Pinafore music you 've 
some of you heard. 

Do you know me, dear strangers — the 
hundredth-time comer 
At banquets and feasts since the days 
of my Spring ? 
Ah ! would I could borrow one rose of 
my Summer, 
But this is a leaf of my Autumn I 
bring. 

I look at your faces, — I 'm sure there 
are some from 
The three-breasted mother I count as 
my own ; 
You think you remember the place you 
have come from, 
But how it has changed in the years 
that have flown ! 

Unaltered, 't is true, is the hall we call 
"Funnel," 
Still fights the " Old South " in the 
battle for life, 
But we 've opened our door to the "West 
through the tunnel, 
And we 've cut off Fort Hill with our 
Amazon knife. 

1 Breakfast at the Century Club, New York, 
May, 1879. 



338 



THE IRON GATE, AND OTHER POEMS. 



You should see the new Westminster 
Boston has builded, — 
Its mansions, its spires, its museums 
of arts, — 
You should see the great dome we have 
gorgeously gilded, — 
'Tis the light of our eyes, 'tis the 
joy of our hearts. 

When first in his path a young asteroid 
found it, 
As he sailed through the skies with 
the stars in his wake, 
He thought 'twas the sun, and kept 
circling around it 
Till Edison signalled, " You Ve made 
a mistake." 

We are proud of our city, — her fast- 
growing figure, 
The warp and the woof of her brain 
and her hands, — 
But we 're proudest of all that her heart 
has grown bigger, 
And warms with fresh blood as her 
girdle expands. 

One lesson the rubric of conflict has 
taught her : 
Though parted awhile by war's earth- 
rending shock, 
The lines that divide us are written in 
water, 
The love that unites us cut deep in 
the rock. 

As well might the Judas of treason en- 
deavor 
To write his black name on the disk 
of the sun 
As try the bright star-w reath that binds 
us to sever 
And blot the fair legend of " Many 
in One." 

We love you, tall sister, the stately, 
the splendid, — 



The banner of empire floats high on 
your towers, 
Yet ever in welcome your arms are ex- 
tended, — 

We share in your splendors, your 
glory is ours. 

Yes, Queen of the Continent ! All of 
us own thee, — 
The gold-freighted argosies flock at 
thy call, 
The naiads, the sea-nymphs have met to 
enthrone thee, 
But the Broadway of one is the High- 
way of all ! 

— I thank you. Three words that can 
hardly be mended, 
Though phrases on phrases their elo- 
quence pile, 
If you hear the heart's throb with their 
eloquence blended, 
And read all they mean in a sunshiny 
smile. 



FOR THE MOORE CENTENNIAL 
CELEBRATION. 

MAT 28, 1879. 
I. 

Enchanter of Erin, whose magic has 
bound us, 
Thy wand for one moment we fondly 
would claim, 
Entranced while it summons the phan- 
toms around us 
That blush into life at the sound of 
thy name. 

The tell-tales of memory wake from 
their slumbers, — 
I hear the old song with its tender re- 
frain, — 
What passion lies hid in those honey- 
voiced numbers ! 
What perfume of youth in each ex- 
quisite strain ! 



MOORE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION. 



339 



The home of my childhood comes back 
as a vision, — 
Hark ! Hark ! A soft chord from its 
song-haunted room, — 
'T is a morning of May, when the air is 
Elysian, — 
The syringa in bud and the lilac in 
bloom, — 

We are clustered around the " demen- 
ti " piano, — 
There were six of us then, — there 
are two of us now, — 
She is singing, — the girl with the sil- 
ver soprano, — 
How " The Lord of the Valley " was 
false to his vow : 

"Let Erin remember" the echoes are 
calling : 
Through " The Vale of Avoca " the 
waters are rolled : 
11 The Exile " laments while the night- 
dews are falling : 
" The Morning of Life " dawns again 
as of old. 

But ah ! those warm love-songs of fresh 
adolescence ! 
Around us such raptures celestial they 
flung 
That it seemed as if Paradise breathed 
its quintessence 
Through the seraph-toned lips of the 
maiden that sung ! 

Long hushed are the chords that my 
boyhood enchanted 
As when the smooth wave by the an- 
gel was stirred, 
Yet still with their music is memory 
haunted 
And oft in my dreams are their melo- 
dies heard. 



I feel like the priest to his altar return- 
ing,— 
The crowd that was kneeling no 
longer is there, 
The flame has died down, but the brands 
are still burning, 
And sandal and cinnamon sweeten the 
air. 

H. 

The veil for her bridal young Summer 
is weaving 
In her azure-domed hall with its tap- 
estried floor, 
And Spring the last tear-drop of May- 
dew is leaving 
On the daisy of Burns and the sham- 
rock of Moore. 

How like, how unlike, as we view them 
together, 
The song of the minstrels whose rec- 
ord we scan, — 
One fresh as the breeze blowing over 
the heather, — 
One sweet as the breath from an oda- 
lisque's fan ! 

Ah, passion can glow mid a palace's 
splendor ; 
The cage does not alter the song of 
the bird ; 
And the curtain of silk has known whis- 
pers as tender 
As ever the blossoming hawthorn has 
heard. 

No fear lest the step of the soft-slippered 
Graces 
Should fright the young Loves from 
their warm little nest, 
For the heart of a queen, under jewels 
and laces, 
Beats time with the pulse in the peas- 
ant girl's breast I 



340 



THE IRON GATE, AND OTHER POEMS. 



Thrice welcome each gift of kind Na- 
ture's bestowing ! 
Her fountain heeds little the goblet 
we hold ; 
Alike, when its musical waters are flow- 
ing, 
The shell from the seaside, the chal- 
ice of gold. 

The twins of tbe lyre to her voices had 
listened ; 
Both laid their best gifts upon Liber- 
ty's shrine ; 
For Coila's loved minstrel the holly- 
wreath glistened ; 
For Erin's the rose and the myrtle en- 
twine. 

And while the fresh blossoms of sum- 
mer are braided 
For the sea-girdled, stream-silvered, 
lake-jewelled isle, 
While her mantle of verdure is woven 
unfaded, 
While Shannon and Liffey shall dim- 
ple and smile. 

The land where the staff of Saint Pat- 
rick was planted, 
Where the shamrock grows green 
from the cliffs to the shore, 
The land of fair maidens and heroes 
undaunted, 
Shall wreathe her bright harp with 
the garlands of Moore ! 



TO JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE- 

APRIL 4, 1880. 

I bring the simplest pledge of love, 

Friend of my earlier days ; 
Mine is the hand without the glove, 

The heart-beat, not the phrase. 

How few still breathe this mortal air 
We called by schoolboy names ! 



You still, whatever robe you weai 
To me are always James. 

That name the kind apostle bore 
Who shames the sullen creeds, 

Not trusting less, but loving more, 
And showing faith by deeds. 

What blending thoughts our memories 
share ! 

What visions yours and mine 
Of May-days in whose morning air 

The dews were golden wine, 

Of vistas bright with opening day, 

Whose all-awakening sun 
Showed in life's landscape, far away, 

The summits to be won ! 

The heights are gained. — Ah, say not 
so 
For him who smiles at time, 
Leaves his tired comrades down be- 
low, 
And only lives to climb ! 

His labors, — will they ever cease, — 
With hand and tongue and pen ? 

Shall wearied Nature ask release 
At threescore years and ten ? 

Our strength the clustered seasons 
tax, — 

For him new life they mean ; 
Like rods around the lictor's axe 

They keep him bright and keen. 

The wise, the brave, the strong, w 
know, — 

We mark them here or there, 
But he, — we roll our eyes, and lo ! 

We find him everywhere ! 

With truth's bold cohorts, or alone, 
He strides through error's field ; 

His lance is ever manhood's own, 
His breast is woman's shield. 






AMERICAN ACADEMY CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION. 



341 



Count not his years while earth has 
need 

Of souls that Heaven inflames 
With sacred zeal to save, to lead, — 

Long live our dear Saint James ! 



WELCOME TO THE CHICAGO 
COMMERCIAL CLUB. 

JANUARY 14, 1880. 

Chicago sounds rough to the maker of 
verse ; 

One comfort we have — Cincinnati 
sounds worse ; 

If we only were licensed to say Chi- 
cago ! 

But Worcester and Webster won't let 
us, you know. 

No matter, we songsters must sing as 
we can ; 

We can make some nice couplets with 
Lake Michigan, 

And what more resembles a nightin- 
gale's voice, 

Than the oily trisyllable, sweet Illinois ? 

Your waters are fresh, while our har- 
bor is salt, 

But we know you can't help it — it is n't 
your fault ; 

Our city is old and your city is new, 

But the railroad men tell us we 're 
greener than you. 

You have seen our gilt dome, and no 

doubt you 've been told 
That the orbs of the universe round 

it are rolled ; 
But I '11 own it to you, and I ought to 

know best, 
That this isn't quite true of all stars of 

the West. 

You '11 go to Mount Auburn — we '11 
show you the track, — 



And can stay there, — unless you pre- 
fer to come back ; 

And Bunker's tall shaft you can climb 
if you will, 

But you Tl puff like a paragraph prais- 
ing a pill. 

You must see — but you have seen — ■ 

our old Faneuil Hall, 
Our churches, our school-rooms, our 

sample-rooms, all; 
And, perhaps, though the idiots must 

have their jokes, 
You have found our good people much 

like other folks. 

There are cities by rivers, by lakes and 

by seas, 
Each as full of itself as a cheese-mite of 

cheese ; 
And a city will brag as a game-cock 

will crow : 
Don't your cockerels at home — just a 

little, you know ? 

But we 11 crow for you now — here 's a 
health to the boys, 

Men, maidens, and matrons of fair Illi- 
nois, 

And the rainbow of friendship that 
arches its span 

From the green of the sea to the blue 
Michigan I 

AMERICAN ACADEMY CENTEN- 
NIAL CELEBRATION. 

MAT 26, 1880. 

Sire, son, and grandson ; so the century 
glides ; 
Three lives, three strides, three foot- 
prints in the sand; 
Silent as midnight's falling meteor 
slides 
Into the stillness of the far-off land ; 
How dim the space its little arc has 
spanned ! 



342 



THE IKON GATE, AND OTHER POEMS. 



See on this opening page the names re- 
nowned 

Tombed in these records on our dusty- 
shelves, 
Scarce on the scroll of living memory 
found, 

Save where the wan-eyed antiquarian 
delves ; 

Shadows they seem ; ah, what are we 
ourselves 1 

Pale ghosts of Bowdoin, Winthrop, 
Willard, West, 

Sages of busy brain and wrinkled 
brow, 
Searchers of Nature's secrets uncon- 
fessed, 

Asking of all things Whence and 
Why and How — 

What problems meet your larger vis- 
ion cow 1 

Has Gannett tracked the wild Aurora's 
path ? 

Has Bowdoin found his all-surround- 
ing sphere ? 
What question puzzles ciphering Philo- 
math ? 

Could Williams make the hidden 
causes clear 

Of the Dark Day that filled the land 
with fear 1 

Dear ancient schoolboys ! Nature taught 
to them 

The simple lessons of the star and 
flower, 
Showed them strange sights ; how on a 
single stem, — 

Admire the marvels of Creative Pow- 
er ! — 

Twin apples grew, one sweet, the 
other sour, 

How from the hill-top where our eyes 
behold 



In even ranks the plumed and bar* 

nered maize 
Range its long columns, in the days of 

old 
The live volcano shot its angry 

blaze, — 
Dead since the showers of Noah's 

watery days ; 

How, when the lightning split the 
mighty rock, 
The spreading fury of the shaft was 
spent I 
How the young scion joined the alien 
stock, 
And when and where the homeless 

swallows went 
To pass the winter of their discontent, 

Scant were the gleanings in those years 
of dearth ; 
No Cuvier yet had clothed the fossil 
bones 
That slumbered, waiting for their sec- 
ond birth ; 
No Lyell read the legend of the 

stones ; 
Science still pointed to her empty 
thrones. 

Dreaming of orbs to eyes of earth un- 
known, 
Herschel looked heavenwards in the 
starlight pale; 
Lost in those awful depths he trod alone 
Laplace stood mute before the lifted 

veil; 
While home-bred Humboldt trimmed 
his toy ship's sail. 

No mortal feet these loftier heights had 

gained 
Whence the wide realms of Nature 

we descry ; 
In vain their eyes our longing fathers 

strained 



THE SCHOOL-BOY. 



34B 



To scan with wondering gaze the 
summits high 

That far beneath their children's foot- 
paths lie. 

Smile at their first small ventures as we 
may, 
The school - boy's copy shapes the 
scholar's hand, 
Their grateful memory fills our hearts 
to-day ; 
Brave, hopeful, wise, this bower of 

peace they planned, 
While war's dread ploughshare scarred 
the suffering land. 

Child of our children's children yet un- 
born, 
When on this yellow page you turn 
your eyes, 
Where the brief record of this May-day 
morn 
In phrase antique and faded letters lies, 
How vague, how pale our flitting 
ghosts will rise ! 

Yet in our veins the blood ran warm 

and red, 
For us the fields were green, the skies 

were blue, 
Though from our dust the spirit long 

has fled, 
We lived, we loved, we toiled, v/e 

dreamed like you, 
Smiled at our sires and thought how 

much we knew. 

Oh might our spirits for one hour re- 
turn, 

When the next century rounds its 
hundredth ring, 
A.11 the strange secrets it shall teach to 
learn, 

To hear the larger truths its years 
shall bring, 

Its wiser sages talk, its sweeter min- 
strels sing ! 



THE SCHOOL -BOY. 

READ AT THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRA- 
TION OF THE FOUNDATION OF PHILLIPS 
ACADEMY, ANDOVER. 

1778-1878. 

These hallowed precincts, long to mem= 

ory dear, 
Smile with fresh welcome as our feet 

draw near ; 
With softer gales the opening leaves 

are fanned, 
With fairer hues the kindling flowers 

expand, 
The rose-bush reddens with the blush of 

June, 
The groves are vocal with their min- 
strels' tune, 
The mighty elm, beneath whose arching 

shade 
The wandering children of the forest 

strayed, 
Greets the bright morning in its bridal 

dress, 
And spreads its arms the gladsome 

dawn to bless. 
Is it an idle dream that nature shares 
Our joys, our griefs, our pastimes, and 

our cares ? 
Is there no summons when, at morning's 

call, 
The sable vestments of the darkness 

fall? 
Does not meek evening's low-voiced Ave 

blend 
With the soft vesper as its notes ascend ? 
Is there no whisper in the perfumed air 
When the sweet bosom of the rose is 

bare? 
Does not the sunshine call us to rejoice 1 
Is there no meaning in the storm-cloud's 

voice ? 
No silent message when from midnight 

skies 
Heaven looks upon us with its myria4 



344 



THE IRON GATE, AND OTHER POEMS. 



Or shift the mirror ; say our dreams 

diffuse 
O'er life's pale landscape their celestial 

hues, 
Lend heaven the rainbow it has never 

known, 
And robe the earth in glories not its 

own, 
Sing their own music in the summer 

breeze, 
With fresher foliage clothe the stately 

trees, 
Stain the June blossoms with a livelier 

dye 
And spread a bluer azure on the sky, — 
Blest be the power that works its law- 
less will 
And finds the weediest patch an Eden 

still ; 
No walls so fair as those our fancies 

build, — 
No views so bright as those our visions 

gild! 

So ran my lines, as pen and paper 
met, 

The truant goose-quill travelling like 
Planchette ; 

Too ready servant, whose deceitful ways 

Full many a slipshod line, alas ! be- 
trays ; 

Hence of the rhyming thousand not a 
few 

Have builded worse — a great deal — 
than they knew. 

"What need of idle fancy to adorn 
Our mother's birthplace on her birth- 
day morn 1 
Hers are the blossoms of eternal spring, 
From these green boughs her new- 
fledged birds take wing, 
These echoes hear their earliest carols 

_ sung, 
In this old nest the brood is ever young. 
If some tired wanderer, resting from his 
flight, 



Amid the gay young choristers alight, 

These gather round him, mark his faded 
plumes 

That faintly still the far-off grove per- 
fumes, 

And listen, wondering if some feeble 
note 

Yet lingers, quavering in his weary 
throat : — 

I, whose fresh voice yon red-faced tem- 
ple knew, 

What tune is left me, fit to sing to 
you? 

Ask not the grandeurs of a labored 
song, 

But let my easy couplets slide along ; 

Much could I tell you that you know 
too well ; 

Much I remember, but I will not tell ; 

Age brings experience; graybeards oft 
are wise, 

But oh ! how sharp a youngster's ears 
and eyes ! 

My cheek was bare of adolescent 

down 
When first I sought the academic town; 
Slow rolls the coach along the dusty 

road, 
Big with its filial and parental load ; 
The frequent hills, the lonely woods 

are past, 
The school-boy's chosen home is reached 

at last, 
I see it now, the same unchanging spot, 
The swinging gate, the little garden 

plot, 
The narrow yard, the rock that made 

its floor, 
The flat, pale house, the knocker-gar- 
nished door, 
The small, trim parlor, neat, decorous, 

chill, 
The strange, new faces, kind, but grave 

and still ; 
Two, creased with age, — or what I thea 

called age, — 



THE SCHOOL-BOY. 



345 



Life's volume open at its fiftieth page ; 

One, a shy maiden's, pallid, placid, 
sweet 

As the first snow-drop, which the sun- 
beams greet ; 

One the last nursling's ; slight she was, 
and fair, 

Her smooth white *forehead warmed 
with auburn hair ; 

Last came the virgin Hymen long had 
spared, 

Whose daily cares the grateful house- 
hold shared, 

Strong, patient, humble ; her substan- 
tial frame 

Stretched the chaste draperies I forbear 
to name. 
Brave, but with effort, had the school- 
boy come 

To the cold comfort of a stranger's 
home ; 

How like a dagger to my sinking haart 

Came the dry summons, " It is time to 
part ; 

"Good -by!" " Goo — ood- by ! " one 
fond maternal kiss. . . . 

Homesick as death ! Was ever pang 
like this ? . . . 

Too young as yet with willing feet to 
stray 

From the tame fireside, glad to get 
away, — 

Too old to let my watery grief appear, — 

And what so bitter as a swallowed 
tear ! 
One figure still my vagrant thoughts 
pursue ; 

First boy to greet me, Ariel, where are 
you? 

Imp of all mischief, heaven alone knows 
how 

You learned it all, — are you an angel 
now, 

Or tottering gently down the slope of 
years, 

Your face grown sober in the vale of 
tears ? 



Forgive my freedom if you are breath" 
ing still; 

If in a happier world, I know you will. 

You were a school-boy — what beneatix 
the sun 

So like a monkey ? I was also one. 
Strange, sure enough, to see what ca- 
rious shoots 

The nursery raises from the study's 
roots ! 

In those old days the very, very good 

Took up more room — a little — than 
they should ; 

Something too much one's eyes encoun- 
tered then 

Of serious youth and funeral - visaged 
men ; 

The solemn elders saw life's mournful 
half, — 

Heaven sent this boy, whose mission 
was to laugh, 

Drollest of buffos, Nature's odd protest, 

A catbird squealing in a blackbird's 
nest. 
Kind, faithful Nature ! While the 
sour-eyed Scot, — 

Her cheerful smiles forb'lden or for- 
got,— 

Talks only of his preacher a ad his kirk, — 

Hears five-hour sermons for his Sunday 
work, — 

Praying and fasting till his meagre face 

Gains its due length, the genuine sign 
of grace, — 

An Ayrshire mother in the land of 
Knox 

Her embryo poet in his cradle rocks ;— ' 

Nature, long shivering in her dim eclipse s 

Steals in a sunbeam to those baby lips ; 

So to its home her banished smile re- 
turns, 

And Scotland sweetens with the song 
of Burns ! 
The morning came ; I reached the ; 
classic hall ; 

A clock-face eyed me, staring from the 
wall; 



346 



THE IRON GATE, AND OTHER POEMS. 



Beneath its hands a printed line I read : 

Youth is life's seed-time : so the 
clock-face said : 

Some took its counsel, as the sequel 
showed, — 

Sowed, — their wild oats, — and reaped 
as they had sowed. 
How all comes back ! the upward 
slanting floor, — 

The masters' thrones that flank the cen- 
tral door, — 

The long, outstretching alleys that di- 
vide 

The rows of desks that stand on either 
side, — 

The staring boys, a face to every desk, 

Bright, dull, pale, blooming, common, 
picturesque. 
Grave is the Master's look ; his fore- 
head wears 

Thick rows of wrinkles, prints of worry- 
ing cares ; 

Uneasy lie the heads of all that rule, 

His most of all whose kingdom is a 
schoo" . 

Supreme he sits ; before the awful frown 

That bends his brows the boldest eye 
goes C )wn ; 

Not more s . bmissive Israel heard and 
saw 

At Sinai's foot the Giver of the Law. 
Less stern he seems, who sits in equal 
state 

On the twin throne and shares the em- 
pire's weight; 

Around his lips the subtle life that plays 

Steals quaintly forth in many a jesting 
phrase ; 

A lightsome nature, not so hard to 
chafe, 

Pleasant when pleased ; rough -handled, 
not so safe ; 

Some tingling memories vaguely I re- 
call, 

But to forgive him. God forgive us 
all! 



One yet remains, whose well-remem- 
bered name 
Pleads in my grateful heart its tender 

claim; 
His was the charm magnetic, the bright 

look 
That sheds its sunshine on the dreariest 

book ; 
A loving soul to every task he brought 
That sweetly mingled with the lore he 

taught ; 
Sprung from a saintly race that never 

could 
From youth to age be anything but 

good, 
His few brief years in holiest labors 

spent, 
Earth lost too soon the treasure heaven 

had lent. 
Kindest of teachers, studious to divine 
Some hint of promise in my earliest 

line, 
These faint and faltering words thou 

canst not hear 
Throb from a heart that holds thy mem- 
ory dear. 
As to the traveller's eye the varied 

plain 
Shows through the window of the flying 

train, 
A mingled landscape, rather felt than 

seen, 
A gravelly bank, a sudden flash of green, 
A tangled wood, a glittering stream that 

flows 
Through the cleft summit where the 

cliff once rose, 
All strangely blended in a hurried 

gleam, 
Rock, wood, waste, meadow, village, 

hill-side, stream, — 
So, as we look behind us, life appears, 
Seen through the vista of our bygone 

years. 
Yet in the dead past's shadow-filled 

domain, 



THE SCHOOL-BOY. 



847 



Some vanished shapes the hues of life 

retain ; 
Unbidden, oft, before our dreaming 

eyes 
From the vague mists in memory's path 

they rise. 
So comes his blooming image to my 

view, 
The friend of joyous days when life 

was new, 
Hope yet untamed, the blood of youth 

unchilled, 
No blank arrear of promise unfulfilled, 
Life's flower yet hidden in its sheltering 

fold, 
Its pictured canvas yet to be unrolled. 
His the frank smile I vainly look to 

greet, 
His the warm grasp my clasping hand 

should meet ; 
How would our lips renew their school- 
boy talk, 
Our feet retrace the old familiar 

walk ! 
For thee no more earth's cheerful morn- 
ing shines 
Through the green fringes of the tented 

pines ; 
Ah me ! is heaven so far thou canst not 

hear, 
Or is thy viewless spirit hovering near, 
A fair young presence, bright with 

morning's glow, 
The fresh-cheeked boy of fifty years 

ago ? 
Yes, fifty years, with all their circling 

suns, 
Behind them all my glance reverted 

runs ; 
Where now that time remote, its griefs, 

its joys, 
Where are its gray - haired men, its 

bright-haired boys 1 
Where is the patriarch time could hardly 

tire, — 
The good old, wrinkled, immemorial 

" squire " ? 



(An honest treasurer, like a black- 
plumed swan, 

Not every day our eyes may look upon.) 

Where the tough champion who, with 
Calvin's sword, 

In wordy conflicts battled for the Lord 1 

Where the grave scholar, lonely, calm, 
austere, 

Whose voice like music charmed the 
listening ear, 

Whose light rekindled, like the morn- 
ing star 

Still shines upon us through the gates 
ajar 1 

Where the still, solemn, weary, sad-eyed 
man, 

Whose care-worn face my wandering 
eyes would scan, — 

His features wasted in the lingering 
strife 

With the pale foe that drains the stu- 
dent's life 1 

Where my old friend, the scholar, teach- 
er, saint, 

Whose creed, some hinted, showed a 
speck of taint ; 

He broached his own opinion, which is 
not 

Lightly to be forgiven or forgot ; 

Some riddle's point, — I scarce remem- 
ber now, — 

Homo/, perhaps, where they said homo 
— ou. 

(If the unlettered greatly wish to know 

Where lies the difference betwixt oi 
and o, 

Those of the curious who have time may 
search 

Amone; the stale conundrums of their 
church.) 

Beneath his roof his peaceful life I 
shared, 

And for his modes of faith I little cared,- 

I, taught to judge men's dogmas by 
their deeds, 

Long ere the days of india - rubber 
creeds. 



848 



THE IRON GATE, AND OTHER POEMS. 



Why should we look one common 
faith to find, 

Where one in every score is color-blind ? 

If here on earth they know not red 
from green, 

Will they see better into things unseen ! 
Once more to time's old graveyard I 
return 

And scrape the moss from memory's 
pictured urn. 

Who, in these days when all things go 
by steam 

Recalls the stage-coach with its four- 
horse team ? 

Its sturdy driver, — who remembers 
him 1 

Or the old landlord, saturnine and grim, 

Who left our hill-top for a new abode 

And reared his sign-post farther down 
the road ? 

Still in the waters of the dark Shaw- 
shine 

Do the young bathers splash and think 
they 're clean ? 

Do pilgrims find their way to Indian 
Ridge, 

Or journey onward to the far-off bridge, 

And bring to younger ears the story 
back 

Of the broad stream, the mighty Merri- 
mac? 

Are there still truant feet that stray 
beyond 

These circling bounds to Pomp's or 
Haggett's Pond, 

Or whete the legendary name recalls 

The forest's earlier tenant, — " Deer- 
jump Falls " ? 
Yes, every nook these yonthful feet 
explore, 

Just as our sires and grandsires did of 
yore; 

So all life's opening paths, where na- 
ture led 

Their father's feet, the children's chil- 
dren tread. 



Roll the round century's five score years 

away, 
Call from our storied past that earliest 

day 
When great Eliphalet (I can see him 

now, — 
Big name, big frame, big voice, and 

beetling brow), 
Then young Eliphalet, — ruled the rows 

of boys 
In homespun gray or old-world cordu- 
roys, — 
And save for fashion's whims, the 

benches show 
The self-same youths, the very boys we 

know. 
Time works strange marvels : since I 

trod the green 
And swung the gates, what wonders I 

have seen ! 
But come what will, — the sky itself 

may fall — 
As things of course the boy accepts them 

all. 
The prophet's chariot, drawn by steeds 

of flame, 
For daily use our travelling millions 

claim ; 
The face we love a sunbeam makes our 

own ; 
No more the surgeon hears the suffer- 
er's groan ; 
What unwrit histories wrapped in dark- 
ness lay 
Till shovelling Schliemann bared them 

to the day ! 
Your Richelieu says, and says it well, 

my lord, 
The pen is (sometimes) mightier than 

the sword ; 
Great is the goosequill, say we all ; 

Amen ! 
Sometimes the spade is mightier than 

the pen ; 
It shows where Babel's terraced walls 

were raised, 



THE SCHOOL-BOY. 



349 



The slabs that cracked when Nimrod's 
palace blazed, 

Unearths Mycenae, rediscovers Troy, — 

Calmly he listens, that immortal boy. 

A new Prometheus tips our wands with 
fire, 

A mightier Orpheus strains the whis- 
pering wire, 

Whose lightning thrills the lazy winds 
outrun 

And hold the hours as Joshua stayed 
the sun, — 

So swift, in truth, we hardly find a 
place 

For those dim fictions known as time 
and space. 

Still a new miracle each year sup- 
plies, — 

See at his work the chemist of the 
skies, 

Who questions Sinus in his tortured 
rays 

And steals the secret of the solar 
blaze ; 

Hush ! while the window-rattling bugles 
play 

The nation's airs a hundred miles away ! 

That wicked phonograph ! hark ! how 
it swears ! 

Turn it again and make it say its pray- 
ers ! 

And was it true, then, what the story 
said 

Of Oxford's friar and his brazen head ? 

While wondering Science stands, herself 
perplexed 

At each day's miracle, and asks " What 
next?" 

The immortal boy, the coming heir of 
all, 

Springs from his desk to " urge the fly- 
ing ball," 

Cleaves with his bending oar the glassy 
waves, 

With sinewy arm the dashing current 
braves, 



The same bright creature in these haunts 

of ours 
That Eton shadowed with her " antique 

towers." 

Boy ! Where is he ? the long-limbed 

youth inquires, 
Whom his rough chin with manly pride 

inspires ; 
Ah, when the ruddy cheek no longer 

glows, 
When the bright hair is white as winter 

snows, 
When the dim eye has lost its lambent 

flame, 
Sweet to his ear will be his school-boy 

name ! 
Nor think the difference mighty as it 

seems 
Between life's morning and its evening 

dreams ; 
Fourscore, like twenty, has its tasks 

and toys ; 
In earth's wide school-house all are girls 

and boys. 

Brothers, forgive my wayward fancy. 

Who 
Can guess beforehand what his pen will 

do? 
Too light my strain for listeners such as 

these, 
Whom graver thoughts and soberer 

speech shall please. 
Is he not here whose breath of holy 

song 
Has raised the downcast eyes of Faith 

so long ? 
Are they not here, the strangers in your 

gates, 
For whom the wearied ear impatient 

waits, — 
The large-brained scholars whom their 

toils release, — 
The bannered heralds of the Prince of 

Peace I 



850 



THE IRON GATE, AND OTHER POEMS* 



Such was the gentle friend whose 

youth unblamed 
In years long past our student-benches 

claimed ; 
Whose name, illumined on the sacred 

page, 
Lives in the labors of his riper age ; 
Such he whose record time's destroying 

march 
Leaves uneffaced on Zion's springing 

arch : 
Not to the scanty phrase of measured 

song, 
Cramped in its fetters, names like these 

belong ; 
One ray they lend to gild my slender 

line — 
Their praise I leave to sweeter lips than 

mine. 

Homes of our sires, where Learning's 

temple rose, 
While yet they struggled with their 

banded foes, 
As in the West thy century's sun de- 
scends, 
One parting gleam its dying radiance 

lends. 
Darker and deeper though the shadows 

fall 
From the gray towers on Doubting 

Castle's wall, 
Though Pope and Pagan re-array their 

hosts, 
And her new armor youthful Science 

boasts, 
Truth, for whose altar rose this holy 

shrine, 
Shall fly for refuge to these bowers of 

thine ; 
No past shall chain her with its rusted 

vow, 
No Jew's phylactery bind her Christian 

brow, 
But Faith shall smile to find her sister 

free, 



And nobler manhood draw its life from 
thee. 

Long as the arching skies above thee 
spread, 

As on thy groves the dews of heaven 
are shed, 

With currents widening still from year 
to year, 

And deepening channels, calm, un- 
troubled, clear, 

Flow the twin streamlets from thy sa- 
cred hill — 

Pieria's fount and Siloam's shaded- 
rill! 



THE SILENT MELODY. 

" Bring me my broken harp, " he said ; 
" We both are wrecks, — but as ye 

will, — 
Though all its ringing tones have 
fled, 
Their echoes linger round it still ; 
It had some golden strings, I know, 
But that was long, — how long ! — 
ago. 

" I cannot see its tarnished gold, 

I cannot hear its vanished tone, 
Scarce can my trembling fingers hold 
The pillared frame so long their 
own ; 
We both are wrecks, — a while ago 
It had some silver strings, I know, 

" But on them Time too long has played 

The solemn strain that knows no 

change, 

And where of old my fingers strayed 

The chords they find are new and 

strange, — 

Yes ! iron strings, — I know, — I 

know, — 
We both are wrecks of long ago. 



THE SILENT MELODY. 



351 



" We both are wrecks, — a shattered 
pair, — 
Strange to ourselves in time's dis- 
guise . . . 
What say ye to the lovesick air 
That brought the tears from Ma- 
rian's eyes ? 
Ay ! trust me, — under breasts of 

snow- 
Hearts could be melted long ago ! 

" Or will ye hear the storm-song's crash 

That from his dreams the soldier 

woke, 

And bade him face the lightning flash 

When battle's cloud in thunder 

broke 1 . . . 

Wrecks, — nought but wrecks ! — the 

time was when 
We two were worth a thousand men ! " 

And so the broken harp they bring 
With pitying smiles that none could 
blame ; 
Alas ! there 's not a single string 
Of all that filled the tarnished 
frame ! 
But see ! like children overjoyed, 
His fingers rambling through the 
void ! 

"I clasp thee ! Ay . • • mine ancient 
lyre . . . 
Nay, guide my wandering fingers. 
. . . There ! 



They love to dally with the wire 
As Isaac played with Esau'» 

hair. „ . . 
Hush ! ye shall hear the famous 

tune 
That Marian called the Breath of 

June ! " 

And so they softly gather round : 
Rapt in his tuneful trance he 
seems : 
His fingers move : but not a sound ! 
A silence like the song of dreams. . . . 
" There ! ye have heard the air," he 

cries, 
" That brought the tears from Marian's 
eyes ! " 

Ah, smile not at his fond conceit, 
Nor deem his fancy wrought in 
vain ; 

To him the unreal sounds are sweet, — 
No discord mars the silent strain 

Scored on life's latest, starlit page — 

The voiceless melody of age. 

Sweet are the lips of all that sing, 
When Nature's music breathes un- 
sought, 
But never yet could voice or string 
So truly shape our ten do rest 
thought 
As when by life's decaying fire 
Our fingers sweep the stringles* 
lyre J 



BEFORE THE CURFEW 



AND OTHER POEMS. 



AT MY FIRESIDE. 

Alone, beneath the darkened sky, 

With saddened heart and unstrung lyre, 
I heap the spoils of years gone by, 
And leave them with a long-drawn sigh, 
Like drift-wood brands that glimmering 
lie, 
Before the ashes hide the fire. 



Let not these slow declining days 
The rosy light of dawn outlast ; 
Still round my lonely hearth it plays, 
And gilds the east with borrowed rays, 
While memory's mirrored sunset blaze 
Flames on the windows of the past. 
March 1, 1888. 



BEFORE THE CURFEW. 

1829-1882. 

Note. — The poems marked thus, 1829-1882, 
etc., were written for and read at the annual meet- 
ings of the class which graduated at Harvard Uni- 
versity in 1829. 

Not bed-time yet ! The night-winds 

blow, 
The stars are out, — full well we know 

The nurse is on the stair, 
With hand of ice and cheek of snow, 
And frozen lips that whisper low, 
u Come, children, it is time to go 

My peaceful couch to share." 



No years a wakefui heart can tire ; 
Not bed-time yet ! Come, stir the fir* 

And warm your dear old hands ; 
Kind Mother Earth we love so well 
Has pleasant stories yet to tell 
Before we hear the curfew bell ; 

Still glow the burning brands. 

Not bed-time yet ! We long to know 
What wonders time has yet to show, 

What unborn years shall bring ; 
What ship the Arctic pole shall reach, 
What lessons Science waits to teach, 
What sermons there are left to preach, 

What poems yet to sing. 

What next ? we ask ; and is it true 
The sunshine falls on nothing new, 

As Israel's king declared ? 
Was ocean ploughed with harnessed fire? 
Were nations coupled with a wire 1 
Did Tarshish telegraph to Tyre 1 

How Hiram would have stared ! 

And what if Sheba's curious queen, 
Who came to see, — and to be seen, — 

Or something new to seek, 
And swooned, as ladies sometimes do, 
At sights that thrilled her through and 

through, 
Had heard, as she was " coming to," 

A locomotive's shriek, 

And seen a rushing railway train 
As she looked oui along the plaia 



X>r. Holmes's morning walk, November, 1893 




- *--. 



A LOVING-CUP SONG. 



353 



From David's lofty tower, — 
A mile of smoke that blots the sky 
And blinds the eagles as they fly 
Behind the cars that thunder by 

A score of leagues an hour ! 

See to my fiat lux respond 

This little slumbering fire-tipped wand, — 

One touch, — it bursts in flame ! 
Steal me a portrait from the sun, — 
One look, — and lo ! the picture done ! 
Are these old tricks, King Solomon, 

We lying moderns claim ? 

Could you have spectroscoped a star ? 
If both those mothers at your bar, 

The cruel and the mild, 
The young and tender, old and tough, 
Had said, "Divide, — you 're right, though 

rough," — 
Did old Judea know enough 

To etherize the child ? 

These births of time our eyes have seen, 
With but a few brief years between ; 

What wonder if the text, 
For other ages doubtless true, 
For coming years will never do, — 
Whereof we all should like a few 

If but to see what next. 

If such things have been, such may 

be; 
Who would not like to live and see — 

If Heaven may so ordain — 
What waifs undreamed of, yet in store, 
The waves that roll forevermore 
On life's long beach may cast ashore 

From out the mist-clad main ? 

Will Earth to pagan dreams return 
To find from misery's painted urn 

That all save hope has flown, — 
Of Book and Church and Priest bereft, 
The Rock of Ages vainly cleft, 
Life's compass gone, its anchor left, 

Left, — lost, — in depths unknown ? 



Shall Faith the trodden path pursue 
The crux ansata wearers knew 

Who sleep with folded hands, 
Where, like a naked, lidless eye, 
The staring Nile rolls wandering by 
Those mountain slopes that climb the sky 

Above the drifting sands 1 

Or shall a nobler Faith return, 
Its fanes a purer gospel learn, 

With holier anthems ring, 
And teach us that our transient creeds 
Were but the perishable seeds 
Of harvests sown for larger needs, 

That ripening years shall bring ? 

Well, let the present do its best, 
We trust our Maker for the rest, 

As on our way we plod; 
Our souls, full dressed in fleshly suits, 
Love air and sunshine, flowers and fruits, 
The daisies better than their roots 

Beneath the grassy sod. 

Not bed-time yet ! The full-blown flower 
Of all the year — this evening hour — 

With friendship's flame is bright ; 
Life still is sweet, the heavens are fair, 
Though fields are brown and woods are 

bare, 
And many a joy is left to share 

Before we say Good -night ! 

And when, our cheerful evening past, 
The nurse, long waiting, comes at last, 

Ere on her lap we lie 
In wearied nature's sweet repose, 
At peace with all her waking foes, 
Our lips shall murmur, ere they close, 

Good-night ! and not Good-by ! 



A LOVING-CUP SONQ. 

1829-1883. 

Come, heap the fagots ! Ere we go 
Again the cheerful hearth shall glow; 



354 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



We '11 have another blaze, my boys ! 
When clouds are black and snows are 

white, 
Then Christmas logs lend ruddy light 
They stole from summer days, my boys, 
They stole from summer days. 

And let the Loving-Cup go round, 

The Cup with blessed memories crowned, 

That flows whene'er we meet, my boys ; 
No draught will hold a drop of sin 
If love is only well stirred in 

To keep it sound and sweet, my boys, 
To keep it sound and sweet. 

Give me, to pin upon my breast, 
The blossoms twain I love the best, 

A rosebud and a pink, my boys ; 
Their leaves shall nestle next my heart, 
Their perfumed breath shall own its part 

In every health we drink, my boys, 
In every health we drink. 

The breathing blossoms stir my blood, 
Methinks I see the lilacs bud 

And hear the bluebirds sing, my boys ; 
Why not ? Yon lusty oak has seen 
Full tenscore years, yet leaflets green 

Peep out with every spring, my boys, 
Peep out with every spring. 

Old Time his rusty scythe may whet, 
The unmowed grass is glowing yet 

Beneath the sheltering snow, my boys ; 
And if the crazy dotard ask, 
Is love worn out 1 Is life a task ? 

We '11 bravely answer No ! my boys, 
We '11 bravely answer No ! 

tfor life's bright taper is the same 
Love tipped of old with rosy flame 

That heaven's own altar lent, my boys, 
To glow in every cup we fill 
Till lips are mute and hearts are still, 

Till life and love are spent, my boys, 
Till life and love are spent. 



THE GIRDLE OF FRIENDSHIP. 

1829-1884. 

She gathered at her slender waist 
The beauteous robe she wore ; 

Its folds a golden belt embraced, 
One rose-hued gem it bore. 

The girdle shrank ; its lessening round 

Still kept the shining gem, 
But now her flowing locks it bound, 

A lustrous diadem. 

And narrower still the circlet grew ; 

Behold ! a glittering band, 
Its roseate diamond set anew, 

Her neck's white column spanned. 

Suns rise and set ; the straining clasp 

The shortened links resist, 
Yet flashes in a bracelet's grasp 

The diamond, on her wrist. 

At length, the round of changes past 
The thieving years could bring, 

The jewel, glittering to the last, 
Still sparkles in a ring. 

So, link by link, our friendships part, 

So loosen, break, and fall, 
A narrowing zone ; the loving heart 

Lives changeless through them alL 



THE LYRE OF ANACREON. 

1829-1885. 

The minstrel of the classic lay 
Of love and wine who sings 

Still found the fingers run astray 
That touched the rebel strings. 

Of Cadmus he would fain have sung, 

Of Atreus and his line ; 
But all the jocund echoes rung 

With songs of love and wine. 



THE OLD TUNE. 



355 



Ah, brothers ! I would fain have caught 
Some fresher fancy's gleam ; 

My truant accents find, unsought, 
The old familiar theme. 

Love, Love ! but not the sportive child 
With shaft and twanging bow, 

Whose random arrows drove us wild 
Some threescore years ago ; 

Not Eros, with his joyous laugh, 

The urchin blind and bare, 
But Love, with spectacles and staff, 

And scanty, silvered hair. 

Our heads with frosted locks are white, 
Our roofs are thatched with saow, 

But red, in chilling winter's spite, 
Our hearts and hearthstones glow. 

Our old acquaintance, Time, drops in, 
Aud while the running sands 

Their golden thread unheeded spin, 
He warms his frozen hands. 

Stay, winged hours, too swift, too sweet, 

And waft this message o'er 
To all we miss, from all we meet 

On life's fast-crumbling shore : 

Say that, to old affection true, 
We hug the narrowing chain 

That binds our hearts, — alas, how few 
The links that yet remain ! 



The fatal touch awaits them all 
That turns the rocks to dust ; 

From year to year they break 
fall,— 
They break, but never rust. 



and 



Say if one note of happier strain 
This worn-out harp afford, — 

One throb that trembles, not in vain, — 
Their memory lent its chord. 



Say that when Fancy closed her wings 
And Passion quenched his fire, 

Love, Love, still echoed from the strings 
As from Anacreon's lyre ! 



THE OLD TUNE. 

THIRTY-SIXTH VARIATION. 

1829-1886. 

This shred of song you bid me bring 
Is snatched from fancy's embers ; 

Ah, when the lips forget to sing, 
The faithful heart remembers ! 

Too swift the wings of envious Time 
To wait for dallying phrases, 

Or woven strands of labored rhyme 
To thread their cunning mazes. 

A word, a sigh, and lo, how plain 

Its magic breath discloses 
Our life's long vista through a lane 

Of threescore summers' roses ! 

One language years alone can teach : 
Its roots are young affections 

That feel their way to simplest speech 
Through silent recollections. 

That tongue is ours. How few the words 

We need to know a brother ! 
As simple are the notes of birds, 

Yet well they know each other. 

This freezing month of ice and snow 
That brings our lives together 

Lends to our year a living glow 
That warms its wintry weather. 

So let us meet as eve draws nigh, 
And life matures and mellows, 

Till Nature whispers with a sigh, 
" Good-night, my dear old fellows ! " 



356 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE BROKEN CIRCLE. 

1829-1887. 

I stood on Sarum's treeless plain, 
The waste that careless Nature owns ; 

Lone tenants of her bleak domain, 
Loomed huge and gray the Druid 
stones. 

Upheaved in many a billowy mound 

The sea-like, naked turf arose, 
"Where wandering flocks went nibbling 
round 
The mingled graves of friends and 
foes. 

The Briton, Roman, Saxon, Dane, 
This windy desert roamed in turn ; 

Unmoved these mighty blocks remain 
Whose story none that lives may learn. 

Erect, half buried, slant or prone, 

These awful listeners, blind and dumb, 

Hear the strange tongues of tribes un- 
known, 
As wave on wave they go and come. 

" "Who are you, giants, whence and 
why 1 " 

I stand and ask in blank amaze ; 
My soul accepts their mute reply : 

" A mystery, as are you that gaze. 

*' A silent Orpheus wrought the charm 
From riven rocks their spoils to bring ; 

A nameless Titan lent his arm 
To range us in our magic ring. 

*But Time with still and stealthy stride, 
That climbs and treads and levels all, 

That bids the loosening keystone slide, 
And topples down the crumbling 
wall, — 

Time, that unbuilds the quarried past, 
Leans on these wrecks that press the 
sod; \ 



They slant, they stoop, they fall at last, 
And strew the turf their priests have 
trod. 

" No more our altar's wreath of smoke 
Floats up with morning's fragrant dew 

The fires are dead, the ring is broke, 
Where stood the many stand the few/ 

— My thoughts had wandered far away, 
Borne off on Memory's outspread wing 

To where in deepening twilight lay 
The wrecks of friendship's broken ring 

Ah me ! of all our goodly train 

How . ew will find our banquet hall ! 

Yet why with coward lips complain 
That this must lean, and that must 
fall? 

Cold is the Druid's altar-stone, • 
Its vanished flame no more returns; 

But ours no chilling damp has known,-— 
Unchanged, unchanging, still it burns. 

So let our broken circle stand 
A wreck, a remnant, yet the same, 

While one last, loving, faithful hand 
Still lives to feed its altar-flame ! 



THE ANGEL-THIEF. 

1829-1888. 

Time is a thief who leaves his tools be> 
hind him ; 
He comes by night, he vanishes at 
dawn ; 
We track his footsteps, but we never find 
him : 
Strong locks are broken, massive bolts 
are drawn, 

And all around are left the bars and 
borers, 
The splitting wedges and the prying 
keys, 



AT THE SATURDAY CLUB. 



357 



Such aids as serve the soft-shod vault- 
explorers 
To crack, wrench open, rifle as they 
please. 

Ah, these are tools which Heaven in 
mercy lends us! 
When gathering rust has clenched our 
shackles fast, 
Time is the angel-thief that Nature sends 
us 
To break the cramping fetters of our 
past. 

Mourn as we may for treasures he has 
taken, 
Poor as we feel of hoarded wealth 
bereft, 
More precious are those implements for- 
saken, 
Found in the wreck his ruthless hands 
have left. 

Some lever that a casket's hinge has 
broken 
Pries off a bolt, and lo ! our souls are 
free; 
Each year some Open Sesame is spoken, 
And every decade drops its master- 
key. 

So as from year to year we count our 
treasure, 
Our loss seems less, and larger look 
our gains ; 
Time's wrongs repaid in more than even 
measure, — 
We lose our jewels, but we break our 
chains. 



AT THE SATURDAY CLUB. 

This is our place of meeting ; opposite 
That towered and pillared building : look 

at it; 
JCing's Chapel in the Second George's 

day, 



Eebellion stole its regal name away, — 
Stone Chapel sounded better ; but at last 
The poisoned name of our provincial past 
Had lost its ancient venom ; then once 

more 
Stone Chapel was King's Chapel as 

before. 
( So let rechristened North Street, when it 

can, 
Bring back the days of Marlborough and 
Queen Anne !•) 
Next the old church your wandering 
eye will meet 
A granite pile that stares upon the 

street, — 
Our civic temple ; slanderous tongues 

have said 
Its shape was modelled from St. Botolph's 

head, 
Lofty, but narrow ; jealous passers-by 
Say Boston always held her head too 
high. 
Turn half-way round, and let your look 
survey 
The white facade that gleams across the 

way,— ■ 
The many-windowed building, tall and 

wide, 
The palace-inn that shows its northern 

side 
In grateful shadow when the sunbeams 

beat 
The granite wall in summer's scorching 

heat. 
This is the place ; whether its name you 

spell 
Tavern, or caravansera, or hotel. 
Would I could steal its echoes ! yoia 

should find 
Such store of vanished pleasures brought 

to mind : 
Such feasts ! the laughs of many a 

jocund hour 
That shook the mortar from King 

George's tower ; 
Such guests ! What famous names its 
record boasts, 



858 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



Whose owners wander in the mob of 

ghosts! 
Such stories! every beam and plank is 

filled 
With juicy wit the joyous talkers spilled, 
Ready to ooze, as once the mountain pine 
The floors are laid with oozed its turpen- 
tine! 

A month had flitted since The Club 

had met; 
The day came round ; I found the table 

set, 
The waiters lounging round the marble 

stairs, 
Empty as yet the double row of chairs. 
I was a full half hour before the rest, 
Alone, the banquet - chamber's single 

guest. 
So from the table's side a chair I took, 
And having neither company nor book 
To keep me waking, by degrees there 

crept 
A torpor over me, — in short, I slept. 
Loosed from its chain, along the wreck- 

strown track 
Of the dead years my soul goes travelling 

back ; 
My ghosts take on their robes of flesh ; it 

seems 
Dreaming is life ; nay, life less life than 

dreams, 
So real are the shapes that meet my 

eyes. — 
They bring no sense of wonder, no sur- 
prise, 
No hint of other than an earth-born 

source ; 
All seems plain daylight, everything of 

course. 
How dim the colors are, how poor and 

faint 
This palette of weak words with which I 

paint ! 
Here sit my friends ; if I could fix them so 
As to my eyes they seem, my page would 

glow 



Like a queen's missal, warm as if the 

brush 
Of Titian or Velasquez brought the 

flush 
Of life into their features. Ay de mi! 
If syllables were pigments, you should 

see 
Such breathing portraitures as never 

man 
Found in the Pitti or the Vatican. 

Here sits our Poet, Laureate, if you 

will. 
Long has he worn the wreath, and wears 

it still. 
Dead? Nay, not so; and yet they say 

his bust 
Looks down on marbles covering royal 

dust, 
Kings by the Grace of God, or Nature's 

grace ; 
Dead! No! Alive! I see him in his 

place, 
Full-featured, with the bloom that heaven 

denies 
Her children, pinched by cold New Eng- 
land skies, 
Too often, while the nursery's happier 

few 
Win from a summer cloud its roseate 

hue. 
Kind, soft-voiced, gentle, in his eye there 

shines 
The ray serene that filled Evangeline's. 
Modest he seems, not shy; content to 

wait 
Amid the noisy clamor of debate 
The looked-for moment when a peaceful 

word 
Smooths the rough ripples louder tongues 

have stirred. 
In every tone I mark his tender grace 
And all his poems hinted in his face : 
What tranquil joy his friendly presence 

gives ! 
How could I think him dead 1 He lives 1 

He lives ! 






AT THE SATURDAY CLUB. 



859 



There, at the table's further end I see 
fn his old place our Poet's vis-a-vis, 
The great Professor, strong, broad- 
shouldered, square, 
In life's rich noontide, joyous, debonair. 
His social hour no leaden care alloys, 
His laugh rings loud and mirthful as a 

boy's, — 
That lusty laugh the Puritan forgot, — 
What ear has heard it and remembers 

not? 
How often, halting at some wide crevasse 
Amid the windings of his Alpine pass, 
High up the cliffs, the climbing moun- 
taineer, 
Listening the far-off avalanche to hear, 
Silent, and leaning on his steel-shod staff, 
Has heard that cheery voice, that ringing 

laugh, 
From the rude cabin whose nomadic walls 
Creep with the moving glacier as it 
crawls ! 
How does vast Nature lead her living 
train 
In ordered sequence through that spacious 

brain, 
As in the primal hour when Adam nampd 
The new-born tribes that young creation 

claimed ! — 
How will her realm be darkened, losing 

thee, 
Her darling, whom we call our Agassiz ! 

But who is he whose massive frame 

belies 
The maiden shyness of his downcast 

eyes ? 
Who broods in silence till, by questions 

pressed, 
Some answer struggles from his laboring 

breast ? 
An artist Nature meant to dwell apart, 
Locked in his studio with a human heart, 
Tracking its caverned passions to their 

lair, 
And all its throbbing mysteries raying 

bare. 



Count it no marvel that he broods 

alone 
Over the heart he studies, — 't is his ov/n ; 
So in his page whatever shape it wear, 
The Essex wizard's shadowed self is 

there, — 
The great Romancer, hid beneath his 

veil 
Like the stern preacher of his sombre 

tale ; 
Virile in strength, yet bashful as a girl, 
Prouder than Hester, sensitive as Pearl. 

From his mild throng of worshippers 

released, 
Our Concord Delphi sends its chosen 

priest, 
Prophet or poet, mystic, sage, or seer, 
By every title always welcome here. 
Why that ethereal spirit's frame describe * 
You know the race-marks of the Brahmin 

tribe, — 
The spare, slight form, the sloping 

shoulders' droop, 
The calm, scholastic mien, the clerkly 

stoop, 
The lines of thought the sharpened fea- 
tures wear, 
Carved by the edge of keen New England 

air. 
List ! for he speaks ! As when a king 

would choose 
The jewels for his bride, he might refuse 
This diamond for its flaw, — find that 

less bright 
Than those, its fellows, and a pearl less 

white 
Than fits her snowy neck, and yet at last, 
The fairest gems are chosen, and made 

fast 
In golden fetters; so, with li^ht delays 
He seeks the fittest word to fill his phrase ; 
Nor vain nor idle his fastidious quest, 
His chosen word is sure to prove the best. 
Where in the realm of thought, whose 

air is song, 
Does he, the Buddha of the West, belong ? 



360 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



He seems a winged Franklin, sweetly 

wise, 
Born to unlock the secrets of the skies ; 
And which the nobler calling, — if 't is 

fair 
Terrestrial with celestial to compare, — 
To guide the storm-cloud's elemental 

flame, 
Or walk the chambers whence the light- 
ning came, 
Amidst the sources of its subtile fire, 
And steal their effluence for his lips and 

lyre? 
If lost at times in vague aerial flights, 
None treads with firmer footstep when 

he lights ; 
A soaring nature, ballasted with sense, 
Wisdom without her wrinkles or pretence, 
In every Bible he has faith to read, 
And every altar helps to shape his creed. 
Ask you what name this prisoned spirit 

bears 
While with ourselves this fleeting breath 

it shares ? 
Till angels greet him with a sweeter one 
In heaven, on earth we call him Emerson. 

I start ; I wake ; the vision is wi th- 
drawn ; 

Its figures fading like the stars at dawn ; 

Crossed from the roll of life their cher- 
ished names, 

And memory's pictures fading in their 
frames ; 

Yet life is lovelier for these transient 
gleams 

Of buried friendships ; blest is he who 
dreams ! 

BENJAMIN PEiRCE! 

ASTRONOMER, MATHEMATICIAN. 

1809-1880. 
For him the Architect of all 
Unroofed our planet's starlit hall ; 
Through voids unknown to worlds unseen 
His clearer vision rose serene. 



With us on earth he walked by day, 
His midnight path how far away ! 
We knew him not so well who knew 
The patient eyes his soul looked through; 

For who his untrod realm could share 
Of us that breathe this mortal air, 
Or camp in that celestial tent 
Whose fringes gild our firmament ? 

How vast the workroom where he brought 
The viewless implements of thought! 
The wit how subtle, how profound, 
That Nature's tangled webs unwound ; 

That through the clouded matrix saw 
The crystal planes of shaping law, 
Through these the sovereign skill that 

planned, — 
The Father's care, the Master's hand ! 

To him the wandering stars revealed 
The secrets in their cradle sealed : 
The far-off, frozen sphere that swings 
Through ether, zoned with lucid rings; 

The orb that rolls in dim eclipse 
Wide wheeling round its long ellipse,— 
His name Urania writes with these 
And stamps it on her Pleiades. 

We knew him not ? Ah, well we knew 
The manly soul, so brave, so true, 
The cheerful heart that conquered age, 
The childlike silver-bearded sage. 

No more his tireless thought explores 
The azure sea with golden shores ; 
Rest, wearied frame ! the stars shall 

keep 
A loving watch where thou shalt sleep. 

Farewell ! the spirit needs must rise, 
So long a tenant of the skies, — 
Rise to that home all worlds above 
Whose sun is God, whose light is love. 



OUR DEAD SINGER. 



361 



OUR DEAD SINGER. 

H. W. L. 

Pbide of the sister realm so long our 
own, 

We claim with her that spotless fame of 

thine, 
White as her snow and fragrant as her 
pine! 
Ours was thy birthplace, but in every 

zone 
Some wreath of song thy liberal hand has 
thrown 
Breathes perfume from its blossoms, 

that entwine 
Where'er the dewdrops fall, the sun- 
beams shine, 
On life's long path with tangled cares 

o'ergrown. 
Can Art thy truthful counterfeit com- 
mand, — 
The silver-haloed features, tranquil, 

mild, — 
Soften the lips of bronze as when they 
smiled, 
Give warmth and pressure to the marble 

hand? 
Seek the lost rainbow in the sky it 
spanned ! 
Farewell, sweet Singer! Heaven re- 
claims its child. 

Carved from the block or cast in clinging 

mould, 
Will grateful Memory fondly try her 

best 
The mortal vesture from decay to 

wrest ; 
His look shall greet us, calm, but ah, how 

cold! 
No breath can stir the brazen drapery's 

fold, 



No throb can heave the statue's stony 

breast ; 
" He is not here, but risen," will stand 
confest 
In all we miss, in all our eyes behold. 
How Nature loved him ! On his placid 
brow, 
Thought's ample dome, she set the 

sacred sign 
That marks the priesthood of her 
holiest shrine, 
Nor asked a leaflet from the laurel's 

be ugh 
That envious Time might clutch or dis- 
allow, 
To prove her chosen minstrel's song 
divine. 

On many a saddened hearth the evening 
fire 
Burns paler as the children's hour 

draws near, — 
That joyous hour his song made doubly 
dear, — 
And tender memories touch the faltering 

choir. 
He sings no more on earth; our vain 
desire 
Aches for the voice we loved so long 

to hear 
In Dorian flute-notes breathing soft and 
clear, — 
The sweet contralto that could never tire. 
Deafened with listening to a harsher 
strain, 
The Maenad's scream, the stark bar- 
barian's cry, 
Still for those soothing, loving tones 
we sigh ; 
Oh, for our vanished Orpheus once again! 
The shadowy silence hears us call in vain! 
His lips are hushed; his song shall 
never die. 



362 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



TWO POEMS TO HARRIET 
BEECHER STOWE. 

DN HEB SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY, JUNE 

14, 1882. 

I. AT THE SUMMIT. 

Sister, we bid you welcome, — we who 
stand 

On the high table-land; 
We who have climbed life's slippery Al- 
pine slope, 
And rest, still leaning on the staff of hope, 
Looking along the silent Mer de Glace, 
Leading our footsteps where the dark 

crevasse 
Yawns in the frozen sea we all must 
pass, — 

Sister, we clasp your hand ! 



Rest with us in the hour that Heaven has 
lent 

Before the swift descent. 

Look ! the warm sunbeams kiss the glit- 
tering ice ; 

See ! next the snow-drift blooms the edel- 
weiss ; 

The mated eagles fan the frosty air ; 

Life, beauty, love, around us every where> 

And, in their time, the darkening hours 
that bear 

Sweet memories, peace, content. 

Thrice welcome ! shining names our mis- 
sals show 

Amid their rubrics' glow, 

But search the blazoned record's starry 
line, 

What halo's radiance fills the page like 
thine ? 

Thou who by some celestial clew couldst 
find 

The way to all the hearts of all mankind, 

On thee, already canonized, enshrined, 

What more can Heaven bestow. 



n THE WORLD'S HOMAGE. 

If every tongue that speaks her praise 
For whom I shape my tinkling phrase 

Were summoned to the table, 
The vocal chorus that would meet 
Of mingling accents harsh or sweet, 
From every land and tribe, would beat 

The polyglots at Babel. 

Briton and Frenchman, Swede and Dane^ 
Turk, Spaniard, Tartar of Ukrain", 

Hidalgo, Cossack, Cadi, 
High Dutchman and Low Dutchm&n, 

too, 
The Russian serf, the Polish Jew, 
Arab, Armenian, and Mantchoo, 

Would shout, '« We know the lady!" 

Know her! Who knows not Uncle 

Tom 
And her he learned his gospel from 

Has never heard of Moses ; 
Full well the brave black hand we know 
That gave to freedom's grasp the hoe 
That killed the weed that used to grow 

Among the Southern roses. 

When Archimedes, long ago, 

Spoke out so grandl} r , " dos pou sto — 

Give me a place to stand on, 
I '11 move your planet for you, now," — 
He little dreamed or fancied how 
The sto at last should find its pou 

For woman's faith to land on. 

Her lever was the wand of art, 
Her fulcrum was the human heart, 

Whence all unfailing aid is ; 
She moved the earth! Its thunders 

pealed, 
Its mountains shook, its temples reeled, 
The blood-red fountains were unsealed, 

And Moloch sunk to Hades. 

All through the conflict, up and down 
Marched Uncle Tom and Old John Brown, 
One ghost, one form ideal; 



WELCOME TO DR. B. A. GOULD. 



363 



And which was false and which was true, 
And which was mightier of the two, 
The wisest sibyl never knew, 
For both alike were real. 



Sister, the holy maid does well 

Who counts her beads in convent cell, 

Where pale devotion lingers; 
But she who serves the sufferer's needs, 
Whose prayers are spelt in loving deeds, 
May tru^t the Lord will count her beads 

As well as human ringers. 

When Truth herself was Slavery's slave, 
Thy hand the prisoned suppliant gave 

The rainbow wings of fiction. 
And Truth who soared descends to-day 
Bearing an angel's wreath away, 
Its lilies at thy feet to lay 

With Heaven's own benediction. 



A WELCOME TO DR. BENJAMIN 
APTHORP GOULD. 

ON HIS RETURN FROM SOUTH AMERICA. 

AFTER FIFTEEN TEARS DEVOTED TO CATALOOUING 
THE STARS OF THE SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE. 1 

Once more Orion and the sister Seven 
Look on thee from the skies that hailed 
thy birth, — 
How shall we welcome thee, whose home 
was heaven, 
From thy celestial wanderings back to 
earth ? 



Science has kept her midnight taper burn- 
ing 
To greet thy coming with its vestal 
flame ; 

Friendship has murmured, "When art 
thou returning 1 " 

» Read at the Dinner given at the Hotel Yen- 
dome, May 6, 1885. 



" Not yet ! Not yet ! " the answering 
message came. 

Thine was unstinted zeal, unchilled de> 
votion, 
While the blue realm had kingdoms to 
explore, — 
Patience, like his who ploughed the un« 
furrowed ocean, 
Till o'er its margin loomed San Salva* 
dor. 

Through the long nights I see thee evei 
waking, 
Thy footstool earth, thy roof the hemi- 
sphere, 
While with thy griefs our weaker hearts 
are aching, 
Firm as thine equatorial's rock-based 
pier. 

The souls that voyaged the azure depths 
before thee 
Watch with thy tireless vigils, all un- 
seen, — 
Tycho and Kepler bend benignant o'er 
thee, 
And with his toy-like tube the Floren- 
tine, — 

He at whose word the orb that bore him 
shivered 
To find her central sovereignty dis- 
owned, 
While the wan lips of priest and pontiff 
quivered, 
Their jargon stilled, their Baal disen- 
throned. 

Flamsteed and Newton look with brows 

unclouded, 
Their strife forgotten with its faded 

scars, — 
(Titans, who found the world of space 

too crowded 
To walk in peace among its myriad 

stars.) 



36i 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



All cluster round thee, — seers of earliest 
ages, 
Persians, Ionians, Mizraim's learned 
kings, 
From the dim days of Shinar's hoary- 
sages 
To his who weighed the planet's fluid 



And we, for whom the northern heavens 
are lighted, 
For whom the storm has passed, the 
sun has smiled, 
Our clouds all scattered, all our stars 
united, 
We claim thee, clasp thee, like a long- 
lost child. 

Fresh from the spangled vault's o'erarch- 
ing splendor, 
Thy lonely pillar, thy revolving dome, 
In heartfelt accents, proud, rejoicing, 
tender, 
We bid thee welcome to thine earthly 
home! 



TO FREDERICK HENRY HEDGE. 

AT A DINNER GIVEN HIM ON HIS 
EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY, DECEMBER, 

12, 1885. 

With a bronze statuette of John of Bologna's 
Mercury, presented by a few friends. 

Fit emblem for the altar's side, 
And him who serves its daily need, 

The stay, the solace, and the guide 
Of mortal men, whate'er his creed ! 

Flamen or Auspex, Priest or Bonze, 
He feeds the upward-climbing fire, 

Still teaching, like the deathless bronze, 
Man's noblest lesson, — to aspire. 

Hermes lies prone by fallen Jove, 
Crushed are the wheels of Krishna's 
car, 



And o'er Dodona's silent grove 
Streams the white ray from Bethle. 
hem's star. 

Yet snatched from Time's relentless 
clutch, 

A godlike shape, that human hands 
Have fired with Art's electric touch, 

The herald of Olympus stands. 

Ask not what ore the furnace knew; 

Love mingled with the flowing mass, 
And lends its own unchanging hue, 

Like gold in Corinth's molten brass. 

Take then our gift ; this airy form 
Whose bronze our benedictions gild, 

The hearts of all its givers warm 
With love by freezing years unchilled. 



undimmed, with strength un- 
rn, 



With eye 

worn, 

Still toiling in your Master's field, 
Before you wave the growths unshorn, 

Their ripened harvest yet to yield. 



True servant of the Heavenly Sire, 
To you our tried affection clings, 

Bids you still labor, still aspire, 
But clasps your feet and steals their 
wings. 

TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

This is your month, the month of "per- 
fect days," 

Birds in full song and blossoms all ablaze. 

Nature herself your earliest welcome 
breathes, 

Spreads every leaflet, every bower in- 
wreathes ; 

Carpets her paths for your returning 
feet, 

Puts forth her best your coming steps to 
greet ; 

And Heaven must surely find the earth in 
tune 



TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 



365 



When Home, sweet Home, exhales the 

breath of June. 
These blessed days are waning all too 

fast, 
And June's bright visions mingling with 

the past ; 
Lilacs have bloomed and faded, and the 

rose 
Has dropped its petals, but the clover 

blows, 
And fills its slender tubes with honeyed 

sweets ; 
The fields are pearled with milk-white 

margarites ; 
The dandelion, which you sang of old, 
Has lost its pride of place, its crown of 

gold, 
But still displays its feathery-mantled 

globe, 
Which children's breath, or wandering 

winds unrobe. 
These were your humble friends; your 

opened eyes 
Nature had trained her common gifts to 

prize ; 
Not Cam nor Isis taught you to de- 
spise 
Charles, with his muddy margin and the 

harsh, 
Plebeian grasses of the reeking marsh. 
New England's home-bred scholar, well 

you knew 
Her soil, her speech, her people, through 

and through, 
And loved them ever with the love that 

holds 
All sweet, fond memories in its fragrant 

folds. 



How pleased the Spaniards for a while 

to claim 
This frank Hidalgo with the liquid name, 
Who stored their classics on his crowded 

shelves 
And loved their Calderon as they did 

themselves ! 
Before his eyes what changing pageants 

pass! 
The bridal feast how near the funeral 

mass ! 
The death -stroke falls, — the Misereres 

wail; 
The joy -bells ring, — the tear-stained 

cheeks unveil, 
While, as the playwright shifts his pictured 

scene, 
The royal mourner crowns his second 

queen. 

From Spain to Britain is a goodly 

stride, — 
Madrid and London long-stretched leagues 

divide. 
What if I send him, " Uncle S., says he," 
To my good cousin whom he calls " J.B." ? 
A nation's servants go where they are 

sent, — 
He heard his Uncle's orders, and he went. 
By what enchantments, what alluring 

arts, 
Our truthful James led captive British 

hearts, — 
Whether his shrewdness made their states- 
men halt, 
Or if his learning found their Dons at 

fault, 
Or if his virtue was a strange surprise, 



Though far and wide your winged words ( Or if his wit flung star-dust in their eyes, 
have flown, ! Like honest Yankees we can simply guess ; 



Your daily presence kept you all our But that he did it all must needs confess 
own, England herself without a blush may 

* claim 
Her only conqueror since the Norman 
came. 
Eight years an exile ! What a weary 
while 



Till, with a sorrowing sigh, a thrill of 

pride, 
We heard your summons, and you left our 

side 
For larger duties and for tasks untried. 



866 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



Since first our herald sought the mother 
isle ! 

His snow-white flag no churlish wrong 
has soiled, — 

He left unchallenged, he returns un- 
spoiled. 

Here let us keep him, here he saw the 

light,— 
His genius, wisdom, wit, are ours by right j 
And if we lose him our lament will be 
We have " five hundred " — not "as good 

as he." 



TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY. 

1887 

Feiend, whom thy fourscore winters 

leave more dear 
Than when life's roseate summer on thy 

cheek 
Burned in the flush of manhood's man- 
liest year, 
Lonely, how lonely ! is the snowy peak 
Thy feet have reached, and mine have 

climbed so near ! 
Close on thy footsteps 'mid the landscape 

drear 
I stretch my hand thine answering grasp 

to seek, 
Warm with the love no rippling rhymes 

can speak ! 
Look backwards ! From thy lofty height 

survey 
Thy years of toil, of peaceful victories 

won, 
Of dreams made real, largest hopes out- 
run! 
Look forward! Brighter than earth's 

morning ray 
Streams the pure light of Heaven's un- 

setting sun, 
The unclouded dawn of life's immortal 

day 1 



PRELUDE TO A VOLUME PRINTED 

IN RAISED LETTERS FOR THE 

BLIINTD. 

Dear friends, left darkling in the long 

eclipse 
That veils the noonday, — you whose 

finger-tips 
A meaning in these ridgy leaves can find 
Where ours go stumbling, senseless, help 

less, blind, 
This wreath of verse how dare I offer you 
To whom the garden's choicest gifts are 

due? 
The hues of all its glowing beds are ours, 
Shall you not claim its sweetest-smelling 

ilowers 1 

Nay, those I have I bring you, — at their 

birth 
Life's cheerful sunshine warmed the 

grateful earth ; 
If my rash boyhood dropped some idle 

seeds, 
And here and there you light on saucy 

weeds 
Among the fairer growths, remember still 
Song comes of grace, and not of human 

will : 

We get a jarring note when most we try, 

Then strike the chord we know not how 
or why ; 

Our stately verse with too aspiring art 
Oft overshoots and fails to reach the heart, 
While the rude rhyme one human throb 

endears 
Turns grief to smiles, and softens mirth 

to tears. 
Kindest of critics, ye whose fingers read, 
From Nature's lesson learn the poet's 

creed ; 
The queenly tulip flaunts in robes of 

flame, 
The wayside seedling scarce a tint may 

claim, 
Yet may the lowliest leaflets that unfold 
A dewdrop fresh from heaven's own chal- 
ice hold. 



HAUVARD ANNIVERSARY. 



367 



BOSTON TO FLORENCE. 

BENT TO "THE PHILOLOGICAL CIRCLE " 
OF FLORENCE FOR ITS MEETING IN 
COMMEMORATION OF DANTE, JANU- 
ARY 27, 1881, ANNIVERSARY OF HIS 
FIRST CONDEMNATION. 

Proud of her clustering spires, her new- 
built towers, 
Our Venice, stolen from the slumbering 

sea, 
A sister's kindliest greeting wafts to 
thee, 
Rose of Val 67 Arno, Queen of all its 

flowers ! 
Thine exile's shrine thy sorrowing love 
embowers, 
Yet none with truer homage bends the 

knee, 
Or stronger pledge of fealty brings, than 
we, 
Whose poets make thy dead Immortal 

ours. 
Lonely the height, but ah, to heaven how 
near ! 
Dante, whence flowed that solemn verse 

of thine 
Like the stern river from its Apennine 
Whose name the far-off Scythian thrilled 

with fear : 
Now to all lands thy deep-toned voice is 
dear, 
And every language knows the Song 
Divine ! 

AT THE UNITARIAN FESTIVAL. 

March 8, 1882. 

The waves unbuild the wasting shore ; 

Where mountains towered the billows 
sweep, 
Yet still their borrowed spoils restore, 

And build new empires from the deep, 
So while the floods of thought lay waste 

The proud domain of priestly creeds, 
Its heaven-appointed tides will haste 

To plant new homes for human needs. 



Be ours to mark with hearts unchilled 
The change an outworn church d©» 
plores ; 

The legend sinks, but Faith shall build 
A fairer throne on new-found shores. 

POEM 

FOR THE TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH 
ANNIVERSARY OF THE FOUNDING OF 
HARVARD COLLEGE. 

Twice had the mellowing sun of autumn 

crowned 
The hundredth circle of his yearly round, 
When, as we meet to-day, our fathers 

met: 
That joyous gathering who can e'er 

forget, 
When Harvard's nurslings, scattered far 

and wide, 
Through mart and village, lake's and 

ocean's side, 
Came, with one impulse, one fraternal 

throng, 
And crowned the hours with banquet, 

speech, and song ? 

Once more revived infancy's magic glass, 
I see in state the long procession pass : 
Tall, courtly, leader as by right divine, 
Winthrop, our Winthrop, rules the mai* 

shalled line, 
Still seen in front, as on that far-off day 
His ribboned baton showed the column's 

way. 
Not all are gone who marched in manly 

pride 
And waved their truncheons at their 

leader's side ; 
Gray, Lowell, Dixwell, who his empire 

shared, 
These to be with us envious Time has 

spared. 

Few are the faces, so familiar then, 
Our eyes still meet amid the haunts of 
men ; 



868 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



Scarce one of all the living gathered 

there, 
Whose unthinned locks betrayed a silver 

hair, 
Greets us to-day, and yet we seem the 

same 
As our own sires and grandsires, save in 

name. 

There are the patriarchs, looking vaguely 

round 
For classmates' faces, hardly known if 

found ; 
See the cold brow that rules the busy 

mart; 
Close at its side the pallid son of art, 
Whose purchased skill with borrowed 

meaning clothes, 
And stolen hues, the smirking face he 

loathes. 
Here is the patient scholar ; in his looks 
You read the titles of his learned books ; 
What classic lore those spidery crow's- 
feet speak ! 
What problems figure on that wrinkled 

cheek ! 
For never thought but left its stiffened 

trace, 
Its fossil footprint, on the plastic face, 
As the swift record of a raindrop stands, 
Fixed on the tablet of the hardening 

sands. 
On every face as on the written page 
Each year renews the autograph of *age ; 
One trait alone may wasting years 

defy, — 
The fire still lingering in the poet's 

eye, 
While Hope, the siren, sings her*sweetest 

strain, — 
Non omnis moriar is its proud refrain. 

Sadly we gaze upon the vacant chair ; 

He who should claim its honors is not 
there, — 

Otis, whose lips the listening crowd en- 
thrall 



That press and pack the floor of Boston's 

hall. 
But Kirkland smiles, released from toil 

and care 
Since the silk mantle younger shoulders 

wear, — 
Quincy's, whose spirit breathes the self- 

same fire 
That filled the bosom of his youthful 

sire, 
Who for the altar bore the kindled torch 
To freedom's temple, dying in its porch. 
Three grave professions in their sons 

appear, 
Whose words well studied all well 

pleased will hear : 
Palfrey, ordained in varied walks to 

shine, 
Statesman, historian, critic, and divine ; 
Solid and square behold majestic Shaw, 
A mass of wisdom and a mine of law ; 
Warren, whose arm the doughtiest war- 
riors fear, 
Asks of the startled crowd to lend its 

ear, — 
Proud of his calling, him the world loves 

best, 
Not as the coming, but the parting guest. 

Look on that form, — with eye dilating 

scan 
The stately mould of nature's kingliest 

man! 
Tower-like he stands in life's unfaded 

prime ; 
Ask you his name ? None asks a second 

time ! 
He from the land his outward semblance 

takes, 
Where storm-swept mountains watch o'er 

slumbering lakes. 
See in the impress which the body wears 
How its imperial might the soul declares : 
The forehead's large expansion, lofty, 

wide, 
That locks unsilvered vainly strive te 

hide; 



HARVARD ANNIVERSARY. 



369 



The lines of thought that plough the 

sober cheek ; 
Lips that betray their wisdom ere they 

speak 
In tones like answers from Dodona's 

grove ; 
An eye like Juno's when she frowns on 

Jove. 
I look and wonder ; will he be content — 
This man, this monarch, for the purple 

meant — 
The meaner duties of his tribe to share, 
Clad in the garb that common mortals 

wear 'i 
Ah, wild Ambition, spread thy restless 

wings, 
Beneath whose plumes the hidden oestrum 

stings ; 
Thou whose bold flight would leave 

earth's vulgar crowds, 
And like the eagle soar above the clouds, 
Must feel the pang that fallen angels 

know 
When the red lightning strikes thee from 

below ! 

Less bronze, more silver, mingles in the 
mould 

Of him whom next my roving eyes be- 
hold ; 

His, more the scholar's than the states- 
man's face, 

Proclaims him born of academic race. 

Weary his look, as if an aching brain 

Left on his brow the frozen prints of 
pain ; 

His voice far-reaching, grave, sonorous, 
owns 

A shade of sadness in its plaintive tones, 

Yet when its breath some loftier thought 
inspires 

Glows with a heat that every bosom 
fires. 

Such Everett seems ; no chance-sown 
wild flower knows 

The full-blown charms of culture's double 



Alas, how soon, by death's unsparing 

frost, 
Its bloom is faded and its fragrance lost ! 

Two voices, only two, to earth belong, 
Of all whose accents met the listening 

throng : 
Winthrop, alike for speech and guidance 

framed, 
On that proud day a twofold duty 

claimed ; 
One other yet, — remembered or forgot, —* 
Forgive my silence if I name him not. 
Can I believe it? I, whose youthful 

voice 
Claimed a brief gamut, — notes not over 

choice, — 
Stood undismayed before the solemn 

throng, 
And propria voce sung that saucy song 
Which even in memory turns my soul 

aghast, — 
Felix audacia was the verdict cast. 

What were the glory of these festal days 
Shorn of their grand illumination's blaze ? 
Night comes at last with all her starry 

train 
To find a light in every glittering pane. 
From "Harvard's" windows see the 

sudden flash, — 
Old "Massachusetts" glares through 

every sash ; 
From wall to wall the kindling splendors 

run 
Till all is glorious as the noonday sun. 

How to the scholar's mind each object 

brings 
What some historian tells, some poet 

sings ! 
The good gray teacher whom we all 

revered — 
Loved, honored, laughed at, and by fresh, 

men feared, 
As from old " Harvard," where its light 

began, 



370 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



From hall to hall the clustering splendors 
ran — 

Took down his well-worn iEschylus and 
read, 

Lit by the rays a thousand tapers shed, 

How the swift herald crossed the leagues 
between 

Mycenae's monarch and his faithless 
queen ; 

And thus he read, — my verse but ill dis- 
plays 

The Attic picture, clad in modern phrase : 

On Ida's summit flames the kindling pile, 
And Lemnos answers from his rocky isle ; 
From Athos next it climbs the reddening 

skies, 
Thence where the watch-towers of Macistus 

rise. 
The sentries of Mesapius in their turn 
Bid the dry heath in high-piled masses 

burn, 
dthozron's crag the crimson billows stain, 
Far ^Egiplanctus joins the fiery train. 
Thus the swift courier through the pathless 

night 
Has gained at length the Arachnoean height, 
Whence the glad tidings, borne on wings oj 

flame, 
" Ilium has fallen! " reach the royal dame. 

So ends the day; before the midnight 

stroke 
The lights expiring cloud the air with 

smoke ; 
While these the toil of younger hands 

employ, 
The slumbering Grecian dreams of 

smouldering Troy. 

As to that hour with backward steps 1 

turn, 
Midway I pause ; behold a funeral urn ! 
Ah, sad memorial! known but all too 

well 
The tale which thus its golden letters 

tell: 



This dust, once breathing, changed its joy* 

ous life 
For toil and hunger, wounds and ?nortal 

strife ; 
Love, friendship, learning's all-prevailing 

charms, 
For the cold bivouac and the clash oj 

arms. 
The cause of freedom won, a race enslaved 
Called back to manhood, and a nation 

saved, 
These sons of Harvard, falling ere their 

prime, 
Leave their proud memory to the coming 

time. 

While in their still retreats our scholars 

turn 
The mildewed pages of the past, to learn 
With endless labor of the sleepless brain 
What once has been and ne'er shall be 

again, 
We reap the harvest of their ceaseless 

toil 
And find a fragrance in their midnight 

oil. 
But let a purblind mortal dare the task 
The embryo future of itself to ask, 
The world reminds him, with a scornful 

laugh, 
That times have changed since Prospero 

broke his staff. 
Could all the wisdom of the schools fore- 
tell 
The dismal hour when Lisbon shook and 

fell, 
Or name the shuddering night that top- 

pled down 
Our sister's pride, beneath whose mural 

crown 
Scarce had the scowl forgot its angry 

lines, 
When earth's blind prisoners fired their 

fatal mines ? 
New realms, new worlds, exulting Sci- 
ence claims, 
Still the dim future unexplored remains; 



HARVARD ANNIVERSARY. 



371 



Her trembling scales the far-off planet ' So Mantua's bard foretold the coming 



weigh, 

Her torturing prisms its elements be- 
tray, — 
We kuovv what ores the fires of Sirius 

melt, 
What vaporous metals gild Orion's belt ; 
Angels, archangels, may have yet to learn 
Thuse hidden truths our heaven-taught 

eyes discern ; 
Yet vain is Knowledge, with her mystic 

wand, 
To pierce the cloudy screen and read 

beyond ; 
Once to the silent stars the fates were 

known, 
To us they tell no secrets but their own. 

At Israel's altar still we humbly bow, 
But where, oh where, are Israel's prophets 

now? 
Where is the sibyl with her hoarded 

leaves ? 
Where is the charm the weird enchantress 

weaves ? 
No croaking raven turns the auspex pale, 
No reeking altars tell the morrow's tale ; 



day 
Ere Bethlehem's infant in the manger 

lay; 
The promise trusted to a mortal tongue 
Found listening ears before the angels 

sung. 
So while his load the creeping pack-horse 

galled, 
While inch by inch the dull canal-boat 

crawled, 
Darwin beheld a Titan from " afar 
Drag the slow barge or drivo the rapid 

car," 
That panting giant fed by air and flame, 
The mightiest forges task their strength 

to tame. 

Happy the poet ! him no tyrant fact 
Holds in its clutches to be chained and 

racked ; 
Him shall no mouldy document convict, 
No stern statistics gravely contradict ; 
No rival sceptre threats his airy throne ; 
He rules o'er shadows, but he reigna 

alone. 
Shall I the poet's broad dominion claim 



The measured footsteps of the Fates are Because you bid me wear his sacred name 



dumb, 
Unseen, unheard, unheralded, they come, 
Prophet and priest and all their following 

fail. 
Who then is left to rend the future's 

veil? 
Who but the poet, he whose nicer sense 
No film can baffle with its slight defence, 
Whose finer vision marks the waves that 

stray, 
Felt, but unseen, beyond the violet 

ray? — 
Who, while the storm-wind waits its 

darkening shroud, 
Foretells the tempest ere he sees the 

cloud, — 
Stars not for time his secrets to reveal, 
But. reads his message ere he breaks the 

seal. 



For these few moments ? Shall I boldly 

clash 
My flint and steel, and by the sudden 

flash 
Read the fair vision which my soul de-> 

scries 
Through the wide pupils of its wondering 

eyes? 
List then awhile; the fifty years have 

sped; 
The third full century's opened scroll is 

spread, 
Blank to all eyes save his who dimly 

sees 
The shadowy future told in words like 

these : 

How strange the prospect to my sight ap« 
pears, 



372 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



Changed by the busy hands of fifty years \ 
Full well I know our ocean-salted Charles, 
Filling and emptying through the sands 

and marls • 

That wall his restless stream on either 

bank, 
Not all unlovely when the sedges rank 
Lend their coarse veil the sable ooze to 

hide 
That bares its blackness with the ebbing 

tide. 
In other shapes to my illumined eyes 
Those ragged margins of our stream 

arise : 
Through walls of stone the sparkling 

waters flow, 
In clearer depths the golden sunsets glow, 
On purer waves the lamps of midnight 

gleam, 
That silver o'er the unpolluted stream. 
Along his shores what stately temples 

rise, 
What spires, what turrets, print the 

shadowed skies ! 
Our smiling Mother sees her broad do- 
main 
Spread its tall roofs along the western 

plain ; 
Those blazoned windows' blushing glories 

tell 
Of grateful hearts that loved her long 

and well ; 
Yon gilded dome that glitters in the sun 
"Was Dives' gift, — alas, his only one ! 
These buttressed walls enshrine a banker's 

name, 
That hallowed chapel hides a miser's 

shame ; 
Their wealth they left, — their memory 

cannot fade 
Though age shall crumble every stone 

they laid. 
Great lord of millions, — let me call 

thee great, 
Since countless servants at thy bidding 

wait, — 
Richesse oblige : no mortal must be blind 



To all but self, or look at human kind 
Laboring and suffering, — all its want 

and woe, — 
Through sheets of crystal, as a pleasing 

show 
That makes life happier for the chosen 

few 
Duty for whom is something not to do. 
When thy last page of life at length is 

filled, 
What shall thine heirs to keep thy 

memory build ? 
Will piles of stone in Auburn's mourn- 
ful shade 
Save from neglect the spot where thou 

art laid f i 
Nay, deem not thus; the sauntering 

stranger's eye 
Will pass unmoved thy columned tomb- 
stone by, 
No memory wakened, not a teardrop 

shed, 
Thy name uncared for and thy date un- 
read. 
But if thy record thou indeed dost 

prize, 
Bid from the soil some stately temple 

rise, — 
Some hall of learning, some memorial 

shrine, 
With names long honored to associate 

thine : 
So shall thy fame outlive thy shattered 

bust 
When all around thee slumber in the 

dust. 
Thus England's Henry lives in Eton's 

towers, 
Saved from the spoil oblivion's gulf de« 

vours ; 
Our later records with as fair a fame 
Have wreathed each uncrowned bene* 

factor's name; 
The walls they reared the memories still 

retain 
That churchyard marbles try to keep is 

vain. 



HARVARD ANNIVERSARY. 



373 



In vain the delving antiquary tries 

To find the tomb where generous Harvard 

lies : 
Here, here, his lasting monument is 

found, 
Where every spot is consecrated ground ! 
O'er Stoughton's dust the crumbling 

stone decays, — 
Fast fade its lines of lapidary praise ; 
There the wild bramble weaves its ragged 

nets, 
There the dry lichen spreads its gray 

rosettes ; 
Still in yon walls his memory lives un- 
spent, 
Nor asks a braver, nobler monument. 
Thus Hollis lives, and Holden, honored, 

praised, 
And good Sir Matthew, in the halls they 

raised ; 
Thus live the worthies of these later 

times, 



Once more I turn to read the pictured 
page 
Bright with the promise of the coming 

age. 
Ye unborn sons of children yet unborn, 
Whose youthful eyes shall greet that far- 
off morn, 
Blest are those eyes that all undimmed 

behold 
The sights so longed for by the wise oi 
old. 
From high-arched alcoves, through re- 
sounding halls, 
Clad in full robes majestic Science calls, 
Tireless, unsleeping, still at Nature's feet, 
Whate'er she utters fearless to repeat, 
Her lips at last from every cramp released 
That Israel's prophet caught from Egypt's 
priest. 
I see the statesman, firm, sagacious, 
bold, 
For life's long conflict cast in amplest 
mould: 



Who shine in deeds, less brilliant, i 

grouped in rhvmes. ^ot ms t0 clamor w ith the senseless 

Say, shall the Muse with faltering steps ' throng 

retreat I That shouts unshamed, " Our party, right 

Or dare these names in rhythmic form j of wrong, 

But in the patriot's nevcr-endim; fight 
To side with Truth, who changes wrong 

to right 
I see the scholar; in that wondrous 

time 
Men, women, children, all can write in 

rhyme. 
These four brief lines addressed to youth 

inclined 
To idle rhyming in his notes I find : 

Who writes in verse that should have writ 

in prose 
Is like a traveller walking on his toes ; 



repeat ? 
Why not as boldly as from Homer's 

lips 
The long array of Argive battle-ships ? 
When o'er our graves a thousand years 

have past 
(If to such date our threatened globe 

shall last) 
These classic precincts, myriad feet have 

pressed, 
Will show on high, in beauteous garlands 

dressed, 
Those honored names that grace our later 

dav, — 
Weld, Matthews, Sever, Thayer, Austin, Ha VVV the rhymester who in time has found 

Q r The heels he lifts were made to touch the 



Sears, Phillips, Lawrence, Hemenway, — 

to the list 
Add Sanders, Sibley, — a! the Muse has 

missed. 



ground. 

I see gray teachers, — on their work 
intent, 



374 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



Tkeir lavished lives, in endless labor 

spent, 
Had closed at last in age and penury 

wrecked, 
Martyrs, not burned, but frozen in 

neglect, 
Save for the generous hands that stretched 

in aid 
Of worn-out servants left to die half paid. 
Ah, many a year will pass, I thought, ere 

we 
Such kindly forethought shall rejoice to 

see, — 
Monarchs are mindful of the sacred debt 
That cold republics hasten to forget. 
I see the priest, — if such a name he 

bears 
Who without pride his sacred vestment 

wears ; 
And while the symbols of his tribe I seek 
Thus my first impulse bids me think and 

speak : 

Let not the mitre England's prelate 

wears 
Next to the crown whose regal pomp it 

shares, 
Though low before it courtly Christians 

bow, 
Leave its red mark on Younger England's 

brow. 
We love, we honor, the maternal dame, 
But let her priesthood wear a modest 

name, 
While through the waters of the Pil- 
grim's bay 
A new-born Mayflower shows her keels 

the way. 
Too old grew Britain for her mother's 

beads, — 
Must we be necklaced with her children's 

creeds ? 
Welcome alike in surplice or in gown 
The loyal lieges of the Heavenly Crown ) 
We greet with cheerful, not submissive, 

mien 
A sister church, but not a mitred Queen ! 



A few brief nutters, and the unwilling 

Muse, 
Who feared the flight she hated to refuse, 
Shall fold the wings whose gayer plumes 

are shed, 
Here where at first her half-fledged 
pinions spread. 
Well I remember in the long ago 
How in the forest shades of Fontaine- 

bleau, 
Strained through a fissure in a rocky cell, 
One crystal drop with measured cadence 

fell. 
Still, as of old, forever bright and clear, 
The fissured cavern drops its wonted tear, 
And wondrous virtue, simple folk aver, 
Lies in that teardrop of la roche qui pleure. 

Of old I wandered by the river's side 
Between whose banks the mighty waters 

glide, 
Where vast Niagara, hurrying to its fall, 
Builds and unbuilds its ever-tumbling 

wall; 
Oft in my dreams I hear the rush and roar 
Of battling floods, and feel the trembling 

shore, 
As the huge torrent, girded for its leap, 
With bellowing thunders plunges down 
the steep. 
Not less distinct, from memory's pic- 
tured urn, 
The gray old rock, the leafy woods, re- 
turn ; 
Robed in their pride the lofty oaks ap- 
pear, 
And once again with quickened sense I 

hear, 
Through the low murmur of the leaves 

that stir, 
The tinkling teardrop of la roche qui 
pleure. 

So when the third ripe century stands 

complete, 
As once again the sons of Harvard meet, 
Rejoicing, numerous as the seashore 

sands, 



HARVARD ANNIVERSARY. 



375 



Drawn from all quarters, — farthest dis- 
tant lands, 

Where through the reeds the scaly sau- 
rian steals, 

Where cold Alaska feeds her floundering 
seals, 

Where Plymouth, glorying, wears her 
iron crown, 

Where Sacramento sees the suns go 
down ; 

Nay, from the cloisters whence the reflu. 
ent tide 

Wafts their pale students to our Mother's 
side, — 

Mid all the tumult that the day shall bring, 

While all the echoes shout, and roar, and 
ring, 

These tinkling lines, oblivion's easy prey, 

Once more emerging to the light of day, 

Not all unpleasing to the listening ear 

Shall wake the memories of this bygone 
year, 

Heard as I hear the measured drops that 
flow 

From the gray rock of wooded Fontaine- 
bleau. 

Yet, ere I leave, one loving word for all 
Those fresh young lives that wait our 
Mother's call : 
One gift is yours, kind Nature's richest 
dower, — 
Youth, the fair bud that holds life's 

opening flower, 
Full of high hopes no coward doubts en- 
chain, 
With all the future throbbing in its brain, 
And mightiest instincts which the beating 

heart 
Fills with the fire its burning waves im- 
part. 
O joyous youth, whose glory is to 
dare, — 
Thy foot firm planted on the lowest stair, 
Thine eye uplifted to the loftiest height 
Where Fame stands beckoning in the 
rosy light, 



Thanks for thy flattering tales, thy fond 

deceits, 
Thy loving lies, thy cheerful smiling 

cheats ! 
Nature's rash promise every day is 

broke, — 
A thousand acorns breed a single oak, 
The myriad blooms that make the orchard 

gay 

In barren beauty throw their lives away ; 
Yet shall we quarrel with the sap that 

yields 
The painted blossoms which adorn the 

fields, 
When the fair orchard wears its May-day 

suit 
Of pink-white petals, for its scanty fruit ? 
Thrice happy hours, in hope's illusion 

dressed, 
In fancy's cradle nurtured and caressed, 
Though rich the spoils that ripening 

years may bring, 
To thee the dewdrops of the Orient 

cling, — 
Not all the dye-stuffs from the vats of 

truth 
Can match the rainbow on the robes of 

youth ! 

Dear unborn children, to our Mother's 

trust 
We leave you, fearless, when we lie in 

dust: 
While o'er these walls the Christian ban- 
ner waves 
From hallowed lips shall flow the truth 

that saves ; 
While o'er those portals Veritas you read 
No church shall bind you with its human 

creed. 
Take from the past the best its toil has 

won, 
But learn betimes its slavish ruts to shun. 
Pass the old tree whose withered leaves 

are shed, 
Quit the old paths that error loved to 

tread, 



376 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS, 



And a new wreath of living blossoms 

seek, 
A narrower pathway np a loftier peak; 
Lose not your reverence, but uumanly fear 
Leave far behind you, all who enter here ! 

As once of old from Ida's lofty height 
The flaming signal flashed across the 

night, 
So Harvard's beacon sheds its unspent rays 
Till every watch-tower shows its kindling 

blaze. 
Caught from a spark and fanned by every 

gale, 
A brighter radiance gilds the roofs of 

Yale; 
Amherst and Williams bid their flambeaus 

shine, 
And Bowdoin answers through her groves 

of pine ; 
O'er Princeton's sands the far reflections 

steal, 
Where mighty Edwards stamped hfs iron 

heel ; 
Nay, on the hill where old beliefs were 

bound 
Fast as if Styx had girt them nine times 

round, 
Bursts such a light that trembling souls 

inquire 
If the whole church of Calvin is on 

fire ! 
Well may they ask, for what so brightly 

burns 
As a dry creed that nothing ever learns ? 
Thus link by link is knit the flaming 

chain 
Lit by the torch of Harvard's hallowed 

plain. 

Thy son, thy servant, dearest Mother 

mine, 
Lays this poor offering on thy holy shrine, 
An autumn leaflet to the wild winds 

tost, 
Touched by the finger of November's 

frost, 



With sweet, sad memories of that earlief 

day, 
And all that listened to my first-born lay. 
With grateful heart this glorious morn 1 

Would that my tribute worthier were of 
tbee! 



POST-PRANDIAL, 
PHI BETA KAPPA. 

Wekdell Phillips, Orator ; Charles Godfrey 
Leland, Poet. 

1881. 

" The Dutch have taken Holland," — so 

the schoolboys used to say ; 
The Dutch have taken Harvard, — no 

doubt of that to-day ! 
For the Wendells were low Dutchmen, 

and all their vrows were Vans ; 
And the Breitmanns are high Dutchmen, 

and here is honest Hans. 

Mynheers, you both are welcome ! Fair 
cousin Wendell P., 

Our ancestors were dwellers beside the 
Znyder Zee ; 

Both Grotius and Erasmus were country- 
men of we, 

And Vondel was our namesake, though 
he spelt it with a V. 

It is well old Evert Jansen sought a 
dwelling over sea 

On the margin of the Hudson, where he 
sampled you and me 

Through our grandsires and great-grand- 
sires, for you would n't quite agree 

With the steady-going burghers along the 
Zuyder Zee. 

Like our Motley's John of Barn veld, yon 
have always been inclined 

To speak, — well, — somewhat frankly, --« 
to let us know your mind, 



THE FLANEUR. 



377 



And the Mynheers would have told you 
to be cautious what you said, 

Or else that silver tongue of yours might 
cost your precious head. 

But we 're very glad you've kept it; it 

was always Freedom's own, 
And whenever Reason chose it she found 

a royal throne ; 
You have whacked us with your sceptre J 

our backs were little harmed, 
And while we rubbed our bruises we 

owned we had been charmed. 

And you, our quasi Dutchman, what wel- 
come should be yours 

For all the wise prescriptions that work 
your laughter-cures ? 

"Shake before taking"? — not a bit, — 
the bottle-cure 's a sham ; 

Take before shaking, and you '11 find it 
shakes your diaphragm. 

" Hans Breitmann gif a barty, — vhere is 

dot barty now ? " 
On every shelf where wit is stored to 

smooth the careworn brow ! 
A health to stout Hans Breitmann ! How 

Ions: before we see 
Another Hans as handsome, — as bright 

a man as he ! 



THE FLANEUR. 

BOSTON COMMON, DECEMBER 6, 1882. 

DURING THE TRANSIT OF VENDS. 

I love all sights of earth and skies, 
From flowers that glow to stars thafi 

shine ; 
The comet and the penny show, . 
All curious things, above, below, 
Hold each in turn my wandering eyes : 
i claim the Christian Pagan's line, 
Humani nihil, — even so, — 
And is not human life divine ? 



When soft the western breezes blow, 
And strolling youths meet sauntering 

maids, 
I love to watch the stirring trades 
Beneath the Vallombrosa shades 
Our much-enduring elms bestow ; 
The vender and his rhetoric's flow, 
That lambent stream of liquid lies; 
The bait he dangles from his line, 
The gudgeon and his gold-washed prize. 
I halt before the blazoned sign 
That bids me linger to admire 
The drama time can never tire, 
The little hero of the hunch, 
With iron arm and soul of fire, 
And will that works his fierce desire, — ■ 
Untamed, unscared, unconquered Punch? 
My ear a pleasing torture finds 
In tones the withered sibyl grinds, — • 
The dame sans merci's broken strain, 
Whom I erewhile, perchance, have known B 
When Orleans filled the Bourbon throne fi 
A siren singing by the Seine. 

But most I love the tube that spies 
The orbs celestial in their march ; 
That shows the comet as it whisks 
Its tail across the planets' disks, 
As if to blind their blood-shot eyes J 
Or wheels so close against the sun 
We tremble at the thought of risks 
Our little spinning ball may run, 
To pop like corn that children parch, 
From summer something overdone, 
And roll, a cinder, through the skies. 

Grudge not to-day the scanty fee 
To him who farms the firmament, 
To whom the milky way is free ; 
Who holds the wondrous crystal key, 
The silent Open Sesame 
That Science to her sons has lent ; 
Who takes his toll, and lifts the bar 
That shuts the road to sun and star. 
If Venus only comes to time, 
(And prophets say she must and shall,) 
To-day will hear the tinkling chime 



378 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



Of many a ringing silver dime, 
For him whose optic glass supplies 
The crowd with astronomic eyes, — 
The Galileo of the Mall. 

Dimly the transit morning broke ; 
The sun seemed doubting what to do, 
As one who questions how to dress, 
And takes his doublets from the press, 
And halts between the old and new. 
Please Heaven he wear his suit of blue, 
Or don, at least, his ragged cloak, 
With rents that show the azure through! 

I go the patient crowd to join 

That round the tube my eyes discern, 

The last new-comer of the file, 

And wait, and wait, a weary while, 

And gape, and stretch, and shrug, and 

smile, 
(For each bis place must fairly earn, 
Hindmost and foremost, in his turn,) 
Till hitching onward, pace by pace, 
I gain at last the envied place, 
And pay the white exiguous coin : 
The sun and I are face to face ; 
He glares at me, I stare at him; 
And lo ! my straining eye has found 
A little spot that, black and round, 
Lies near the crimsoned fire-orb's rim. 

blessed, beauteous evening star, 
Well named for her whom earth adores, — 
The Lady of the dove-drawn car, — 

1 know thee in thy white simar ; 
But veiled in black, a rayless spot, 
Blank as a careless scribbler's blot, 
Stripped of thy robe of silvery flame, — 
The stolen robe that Night restores 
When Day has shut his golden doors, — 
I see thee, yet I know thee not ; 

And canst thou call thyself the same ? 

A black, round spot, — and that is all; 
And such a speck our earth would be 
If he who looks upon the stars 
Through the red atmosphere of Mars 
Could see our little creeping ball 



Across the disk of crimson crawl 
As I our sister planet see. 

And art thou, then, a world like ours, 
Flung from the orb that whirled our owg 
A molten pebble from its zone ? 
How must thy burning sands absorb 
The fire-waves of the blazing orb, 
Thy chain so short, thy path so near, 
Thy flame-defying creatures hear 
The maelstroms of the photosphere ! 
And is thy bosom decked with flowers 
That steal their bloom from scalding 

showers ? 
And hast thou cities, domes, and towers, 
And life, and love that makes it dear, 
And death that fills thy tribes with fear? 

Lost in my dream, my spirit soars 
Through paths the wandering angels 

know; 
My all-pervading thought explores 
The azure ocean's lucent shores ; 
I leave my mortal self below, 
As up the star-lit stairs I climb, 
And still the widening view reveals 
In endless rounds the circling wheels 
That build the horologe of time. 
New spheres, new suns, new systems 

gleam ; 
The voice no earth-born echo hears 
Steals softly on my ravished ears: 
I hear them " singing as they shine" — 
— A mortal's voice dissolves my dream: 
My patient neighbor, next in line, 
Hints gently there are those who wait. 
O guardian of the starry gate, 
What coin shall pay this debt of mine ? 
Too slight thy claim, too small the fee 
That bids thee turn the potent key 
The Tuscan's hand has placed in thine. 
Forgive my own tne small affront, 
The insult of the proffered dime ; 
Take it, O friend, since this thy wont, 
But still shall faithful memory be 
A bankrupt debtor unto thee, 
And pay thee with a grateful rhyme. 



KING S CHAPEL. 



379 



AVE. 



Full well I know the frozen hand has 
come 

That smites the songs of grove and 
garden dumb, 

And chills sad autumn's last chrysanthe- 
mum; 

Yet would I find one blossom, if I might, 
Ere the «ark loom that weaves the robe of 

white 
Hides all the wrecks of summer out of 

sight 

Sometimes in dim November's narrowing 

day, 
When all the season's pride has passed 

away, 
As mid the blackened stems and leaves 

we stray, 

We spy in sheltered nook or rocky cleft 
A starry disk the hurrying winds have 

left, 
Of all its blooming sisterhood bereft : 

Some pansy, with its wondering baby 

eyes — 
Poor wayside nursling ! — fixed in blank 

surprise 
At the rough welcome of unfriendly 

skies ; 

Or golden daisy, — will it dare disclaim 
The lion's tooth, to wear this gentler 

name ? 
Or blood-red salvia, with its lips aflame : 

The storms have stripped the lily and the 

rose, 
Still on its cheek the flush of summer 

glows, 
And all its heart-leaves kindle as it blows 

So had I looked some bud of song to find 



The careless winds of autumn left behind, 
With these of earlier seasons' growth to 
bind. 

Ah me ! my skies are dark with sudden 

grief, 
A flower lies faded on my garnered 

sheaf ; 
Yet let the sunshine gild this virgin 

leaf, — 

The joyous, blessed sunshine of the past, 
Still with me, though the heavens are 

overcast, — 
The light that shines while life and 

memory last. 

Go, pictured rhymes, for loving readers 
meant; 

Bring back the smiles your jocund morn- 
ing lent, 

And warm their hearts with sunbeama 
yet unspent ! 

Beverly Farms, duly 24, 1884. 

KING'S CHAPEL. 

READ AT THE TWO HUNDREDTH ANNI- 
VERSARY. 

Is it a weanling's weakness for the past 

That in the stormy, rebel-breeding town, 
Swept clean of relics by the levelling 

blast, 
Still keeps our gray old chapel's name of 

" King's," — 
Still to its outworn symbols fondly clings, 
Its unchurched mitres and its empty 
crown 1 

Poor harmless emblems ! All has shrunk 
. away 
That made them gorgons in the pa- 
triot's eyes ; 
The priestly plaything harms us not 

to-day ; 
The gilded crown is but a pleasing show, 



380 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



An old-world heirloom, left from long 
ago, 
Wreck of the past that memory bids 
us prize. 

Lightly we glance the fresh-cut marbles 
o'er; 
Those two of earlier date our eyes en- 
thrall : 

The proud old Briton's by the western 
door, 

And hers, the Lady of Colonial days, 

Whose virtues live in long-drawn classic 
phrase, — 
The fair Francesca of the southern 
wall. 

Ay ! those were goodly men that Reynolds 

drew, 
And stately dames our Copley's canvas 

holds, 
To their old Church, their Royal Master, 

true, 
Proud of the claim their valiant sires had 

earned, 
That "gentle blood," not lightly to be 

spurned, 
Save by the churl ungenerous Nature 

moulds. 

All vanished ! It were idle to complain 
That ere the fruits shall come the 
flowers must fall ; 
Yet somewhat we have lost amidst our 

gain, 
Some rare ideals time may not restore, — 
The charm of courtly breeding, seen no 
more, 
And reverence, dearest ornament of all. 

»— Thus musing, to the western wall I 
came, 
Departing : lo ! a tablet fresh and fair, 

Where glistened many a youth's remem- 
bered name 

In golden letters on the snow-white ' In full-heaped hands, the opening flowers 
stone,— J of spring, 



Young lives these aisles and arches onc« 
have known, 
Their country's bleeding altar might 
not spare. 

These died that we might claim a soil 
unstained, 
Save by the blood of heroes ; their be- 
quests 

A realm unsevered and a race unchained. 

Has purer blood through Norman veins 
come down 

From the rough knights that clutched 
the Saxon's crown 
Than warmed the pulses in these faith- 
ful breasts ? 

These, too, shall live in history's deathless 

page, 
High on the slow-wrought pedestals of 

fame, 
Ranged with the heroes of remoter age ; 
They could not die who left their nation 

free, 
Firm as the rock, unfettered as the sea, 
Its heaven unshadowed by the cloud of 

shame. 

While on the storied past our memory 
dwells, 
Our grateful tribute shall not be de 
nied, — 

The wreath, the cross of rustling immor- 
telles ; 

And willing hands shall clear each dark- 
ening bust, 

As year by year sifts down the clinging 
dust 
On Shirley's beauty and on Vassall's 
pride. 

But for our own, our loved and lost, we, 
bring 
With throbbing hearts and tears that 
still must flow, 



HYMN. — THE WORD OF FROMISE. 



381 



Lilies half-blown, and budding roses, red 
As their young cheeks, before the blood 
was shed 
That lent their morning bloom its gen- 
erous glow. 

Ah, who shall count a rescued nation's 
debt, 
Or sum in words our martyrs' silent 
claims'? 

Who shall our heroes' dread exchange 
forget, — 

All life, youth, hope, could promise to 
allure 

For all that soul could brave or flesh en- 
dure ? 
They shaped our future ; we but carve 
their names. 



HYMN 

FOR TEE SAME OCCASION. 

SUNG BY THE CONGREGATION TO THE TUNE OF TAL- 
LIS'S EVENING HYMN. 

O'ershadowed by the walls that climb, 
Piled up in air by living hands, 

A rock amid the waves of time, 

Our gray old house of worship stands. 

High o'er the pillared aisles we love 
The symbols of the past look down; 

Unharmed, unharming, throned above, 
Behold the mitre and the crown ! 

Let not our younger faith forget 
The loyal souls that held them dear ; 

The prayers we read their tears have wet, 
The hymns we sing they loved to hear 

The memory of their earthly throne 
Still to our holy temple clings, 

But here the kneeling suppliants own 
One only Lord, the King of kings. 

Hark ! while our hymn of grateful praise 
The solemn echoing vaults prolong, 



The far-off voice of earlier days 
Blends with our own in hallowed song : 

To Him who ever lives and reigns, 
Whom all the hosts of heaven adore, 

Who lent the life His breath sustains, 
Be glory now and evermore ! 

HYMN. -THE WORD OF PROMISE. 

(by supposition) 

An Hymn set forth to be sung by the Great 
Assembly at Newtown, [Mass.] Mo. 12. 1. 
1636. 

[Written by Oliver Wendell Holmes, eldest sou 
of Rev. Abiel Holmes, eighth Pastor of th* 
First Church in Cambridge, Massachusetts.] 

Lord, Thou hast led us as of old 

Thine Arm led forth the chosen Raee 

Through Foes that raged, through Floods 
that roll'd, 
To Canaan's far-off Dwelling- Place. 

Here is Thy bounteous Table spread, 
Thy Manna falls on every Field, 

Thy Grace our hungering Souls hath fed, 
Thy Might hath been our Spear and 
Shield. 

Lift high Thy Buckler, Lord of Hosts ! 

Guard Thou Thy Servants, Sons and 
Sires, 
While on the Godless heathen Coasts 

They light Thine Israel's Altar-fires! 

The salvage Wilderness remote 
Shall hear Thy Works and Wonders 
sung; 

So from the Rock that Moses smote 
The Fountain of the Desart sprung. 

Soon shall the slumbering Morn awake, 
From wandering Stars of Errour freed, 

When Christ the Bread of Heaven shall 
break 
For Saints that own a common Creed. 



382 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



The Walls that fence His Flocks apart 
Shall crack and crumble in Decay, 

And every Tongue and every Heart 
Shall welcome in the new-born Day. 

Then shall His glorious Church rejoice 
His Word of Promise to recall, — 

One sheltering Fold, one Shep- 
herd's Voice, 
One God and Father over all ! 



HYMN. 

read at the dedication op the 
oliver "wendell holmes hospital 
at hudson, wisconsin, june 7, 1887. 

Angel of love, for every grief 

Its soothing balm tby mercy brings, 

For every pang its healing leaf, 
For homeless want, thine outspread 
wings. 

Enough for thee the pleading eye • 
The knitted brow of silent pain ; 

The portals open to a sigh 
Without the clank of bolt or chain. 

Who is our brother ? He that lies 
Left at the wayside, bruised and sore : 

His need our open hand supplies, 
His welcome waits him at our door. 

Not ours to ask in freezing tones 
His race, his calling, or his creed ; 

Each heart the tie of kinship owns, 
When those are human veins that 
bleed. 

Here stand the champions to defend 
From every wound that flesh can feel; 

Here science, patience, skill, shall blend 
To save, to calm, to help, to heal. 

Father of Mercies ! Weak and frail, 
Thy guiding hand Thy children ask; 

Let not the Great Physician fail 
To aid us in our holy task. 



Source of all truth, and love, and light, 
That warm and cheer our earthly days, 

Be ours to serve Thy will aright, 
Be Thine the glory and the praise ! 

ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT 
GARFIELD. 

i. 
Fallen with autumn's falling leaf 

Ere yet his summer's noon was past, 
Our friend, our guide, our trusted 
chief, — 
What words can match a woe so vast 1 

And whose the chartered claim to speak 
The sacred grief where all have part, 

Where sorrow saddens every cheek 
And broods in every aching heart ? 

Yet Nature prompts the burning phrase 
That thrills the hushed and shrouded 
hall, 

The loud lament, the sorrowing praise, 
The silent tear that love lets fall. 

In loftiest verse, in lowliest rhyme, 
Shall strive unblamed the minstrel 
choir, — 

The singers of the new-born time, 
And trembling age with outworn lyre. 

No room for pride, no place for blame,— 
We fling our blossoms on the grave, 

Pale, — scentless, — faded, — all we claim, 
This only, — what we had we gave. 

Ah, could the grief of all who mourn 
Blend in one voice its bitter cry, 

The wail to heaven's high arches borne 
Would echo through the caverned sky 

ii. 

happiest land, whose peaceful choice 
Fills with a breath its empty throne ! 

God, speaking through thy people's voice, 
Has made that voice for once His own, 



THE GOLDEN FLOWER. 



383 



No angry passion shakes the state 
Whose weary servant seeks for rest ; 

And who could fear that scowling hate 
Would strike at that unguarded breast 1 

He stands, unconscious of his doom, 
Iu manly strength, erect, serene ; 

Around him Summer spreads her bloom; 
He falls, — what horror clothes the 



scene 



How swift the sudden flash of woe 

Where all was bright as childhood's 
dream ! 
As if from heaven's ethereal bow 

Had leaped the lightning's arrowy 
gleam. 

Blot the foul deed from history's page ; 

Let not the all-betraying sun 
Blush for the day that stains an age 

When murder's blackest wreath was 
won. 

in. 

Pale on his couch the sufferer lies, 
The weary battle-ground of pain : 

Love tends his pillow ; Science tries 
Her every art, alas ! in vain. 

The strife endures how long! how long ! 

Life, death, seem balanced in the scale, 
While round his bed a viewless throng 

Await each morrow's changing tale. 

In realms the desert ocean parts 

What myriads watch with tear-filled 
eyes, 
His pulse-beats echoing in their hearts, 
His breathings counted with theii 
sighs ! 

Slowly the stores of life are spent, 
Yet hope still battles with despair ; 

Will Heaven not yield when knees are 
bent? 
Answer, O Thou that hearest prayer ! 



But silent is the brazen sky ; 

On sweeps the meteor's threatening 
train, 
Unswerving Nature's mute reply, 

Bound in her adamantine chain. 

Not ours the verdict to decide 

Whom death shall claim or skill shall 
save; 
The hero's life though Heaven denied, 

It gave our land a martyr's grave. 

Nor count the teaching vainly sent 

How human hearts their griefs may 
share, — 
The lesson woman's love has lent, 

What hope may do, what faith can 
bear"! 

Farewell ! the leaf-strown earth enfolds 
Our stay, our pride, our hopes, our 
fears, 

And autumn's golden sun beholds 
A nation bowed, a world in tears. 



THE GOLDEN FLOWER. 

When Advent dawns with lessening days, 

While earth awaits the angels' hymn ; 
When bare as branching coral sways 

In whistling winds each leafless limb; 
When spring is but a spendthrift's dream, 

And summer's wealth a wasted dower, 
Nor dews nor sunshine may redeem, — 

Then autumn coins his Golden Flower. 

Soft was the violet's vernal hue, 

Fresh was the rose's morning red, 
Full-orbed the stately dahlia grew, — 
All gone ! their short-lived splendors 
shed. 
The shadows, lengthening, stretch at 
noon ; 
The fields are stripped, the groves are 
dumb ; 
The frost-flowers greet the icy moon, — 



384 



BEFORE THK CURFEW AND 01 HER POEMS. 



Then blooms the bright chrysanthe- 
mum. 

The stiffening turf is white with snow, 

Yet still its radiant disks are seen 
Where soon the hallowed morn will show 

The wreath and cross of Christmas 
green ; 
As if in autumn's dying days 

It heard the heavenly song afar, 
And opened all its glowing rays, 

The herald lamp of Bethlehem's star. 

Orphan of summer, kindly sent 

To cheer the fading year's decline, 
In all that pitying Heaven has lent 

No fairer pledge of hope than thine. 
Yes ! June lies hid beneath the snow, 

And winter's unborn heir shall claim 
For every seed that sleeps below 

A spark that kindles into flame. 

Thy smile the scowl of winter braves 

Last of the bright-robed, flowery train, 
Soft sighing o'er the garden graves, 

" Farewell ! farewell ! we meet again ! " 
So may life's chill November bring 

Hope's golden flower, the last of all, 
Before we hear the angels sing 

Where blossoms never fade and fall ! 



NO TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME. 

There is no time like the old time, when 

you and I were young, 
When the buds of April blossomed, and 

the birds of spring-time sung ! 
The garden's brightest glories by summer 

suns are nursed, 
But oh, the sweet, sweet violets, the 

flowers that opened first ! 

There is no place like the old place, where 

you and I were born, 
Where we lifted first our eyelids on the 

aplendorb of the morn 



From the milk-white breast that warmed 
us, from the clinging arms that 
bore, 

Where the dear eyes glistened o'er us that 
will look on us no more ! 

There is no friend like the old friend, who 

has shared our morning days, 
No greeting like his welcome, no homage 

like his praise : 
Fame is the scentless sunflower, with 

gaudy crown of gold ; 
But friendship is the breathing rose, with 

sweets in every fold. 

There is no love like the old love, that we 

courted in our pride; 
Though our leaves are falling, falling, 

and we 're fading side by side, 
There are blossoms all around us with the 

colors of our dawn, 
And we live in borrowed sunshine when 

the day-star is withdrawn. 

There are no times like the old times, — 

they shall never be forgot ! 
There is no place like the old place,— 

keep green the dear old spot ! 
There are no friends like our old friends, 

— may Heaven prolong their lives ! 
There are no loves like our old loves,— 

God bless our loving wives ! 
1865. 

THE MORNING VISIT. 

A sick man's chamber, though it often 

boast 
The grateful presence of a literal toast, 
Can hardly claim, amidst its various 

wealth, 
The right unchallenged to propose a 

health ; 
Yet though its tenant is denied the feast, 
Friendship must launch his sentiment at 

least, 
As prisoned damsels, locked from loverrf 

lips, 



THE MORNING VISIT. 



385 



Toss them a kiss from off their fingers' 
tips. 

The morning visit, — not till sickness 

falls 
In the charmed circles of your own safe 

walls ; 
Till fever's throb and pain's relentless 

rack 
Stretch you all helpless on your aching 

back; 
Not till you play the patient in your 

turn, 
The morning visit's mystery shall you 

learn. 

*T is a small matter, in your neighbor's 

case, 
To charge your fee for showing him your 

face ; 
You skip upstairs, inquire, inspect, and 

touch, 
Prescrihe, take leave, and off to twenty 

such. 

But when at length by fate's transferred 

decree 
The visitor becomes the visitee : 
Oh, then, indeed, it pulls another string; 
Your ox is gored, and that 's a different 

thing ! 
Your friend is sick: phlegmatic as a 

Turk, 
You write your recipe and let it work ; 
Not yours to stand the shiver and the 

frown, 
And sometimes worse, with which your 

draught goes down. 
Calm as a clock your knowing hand 

directs, 
Rhei, jalapce ana grana sex, 
Or traces on some tender m'ssive's back, 
Scrupulos duos pulveris ipecac : 
And leaves your patient to his qualms 

and gripes, 
Cool as a sportsman banging at his 

snipes. 



But change the time, the person, and th© 

place, 
And be yourself " the interesting case," 
You '11 gain some knowledge which it 's 

well to learn ; 
In future practice it may serve your 

turn. 
Leeches, for instance, — pleasing crea- 
tures quite, 
Try them, — and bless you, — don't you 

find they bite ? 
You raise a blister for the smallest cause, 
But be yourself the sitter whom it draws, 
And trust my statement, you will not 

deny 
The worst of draughtsmen is your Spanish 

fly! 

It 's mighty easy ordering when you 

please 
Infusi sennce capiat uncias tres; 
It's mighty different when you quackle 

down 
Your own three ounces of the liquid 

brown. 
Pilula, pulvis, — pleasant words enough, 
When other throats receive the shocking 

stuff; 
But oh, what flattery can disguise the 

groan 
That meets the gulp which sends it 

through your own ! 
Be gentle, then, though Art's unsparing 

rules 
Give you the handling of her sharpest 

tools ; 
Use them not rashly, — sickness is 

enough ; 
Be always " ready," but be never "rough." 

Of all the ills that suffering man en- 
dures, 

The largest fraction liberal Nature cures ; 

Of those remaining, 'tis the smallest 
part 

Yields to the efforts of judicious Art; 

But simple Kindness, kneeling by the 
bed 



386 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



To shift the pillow for the sick man's 

head, 
Give the fresh draught to cool the lips 

that burn, 
Fan the hot brow, the weary frame to 

turn, — 
Kindness, untutored by our grave M. D.'s, 
But Nature's graduate, when she schools 

to please, 
Wins back more sufferers with her voice 

and smile 
Than all the trumpery in the druggist's 

pile. 

Once more, be quiet: coming up the stair, 

Don't be a plantigrade, a human bear, 

But, stealing softly on the silent toe, 

Beach the sick chamber ere you 're heard 
below. 

Whatever changes there may greet your 
eyes, 

Let not your looks proclaim the least sur- 
prise ; 

It's not your business by your face to 
show 

All that your patient does not want to 
know; 

Nay, use your optics with considerate 
care, 

And don't abuse your privilege to stare. 

But if your eyes may probe him over- 
much, 

Beware still further how you rudely 
touch ; 

Don't clutch his carpus in your icy fist, 

But warm your fingers ere you take the 
wrist. 

If the poor victim needs must be per- 
cussed, 

Don't make an anvil of his aching bust; 

(Doctors exist within a hundred miles 

Who thump a thorax as they 'd hammer 
piles ;) 

If you must listen to his doubtful chest, 

Catch the essentials, and ignore the rest. 

Spare him ; the sufferer wants of you and 
art 



A track to steer by, not a finished chart. 
So of your questions : don't in mercy try 
To pump your patient absolutely dry ; 
He 's not a mollusk squirming in a dish, 
You 're not Agassiz, and he 's not a fish. 

And last, not least, in each perplexing 

case, 
Learn the sweet magic of a cheerful face ; 
Not always smiling, but at least serene, 
When grief and anguish cloud the 

anxious scene. 
Each look, each movement, every word 

and tone, 
Should tell your patient you are all his 

own; 
Not the mere artist purchased to attend, 
But the warm, ready, self-forgetting 

friend, 
Whose genial visit in itself combines 
The best of cordials, tonics, anodynes. 

Such is the visit that from day to day 
Sheds o'er my chamber its benignant ray- 
I give his health, who never cared to 

claim 
Her babbling homage from the tongue of 

Fame ; 
Unmoved by praise, he stands by all con- 
test, 
The truest, noblest, wisest, kindest, best. 
1849. 

HAIL, COLUMBIA! 

1798. 

THE FIRST VERSE OP THE SONG, B"S 
JOSEPH HOPKINSON. 

" Hail, Columbia ! Happy land ! 
Hail, ye heroes, heaven-born band, 

Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause 

Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause. 
And when the storm of war was gone 
Enjoy'd the peace your valor won. 

Let independence be our boast, 

Ever mindful what it cost ; 

Ever grateful for the prize, 

Let its altar reach the skies. 



DEDICATION OF THE FOUNTAIN AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 387 



11 Firm — united — let us be, 
Rallying round our Liberty ; 
As a band of brothers join'd, 
Peace and safety we shall find. " 



ADDITIONAL VERSES 

JRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE COMMITTEE FOR 
THE CONSTITUTIONAL CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION AT 
PHILADELPHIA, 1887. 

Look our ransomed shores around, 

Peace and safety we have found ! 
Welcome, friends who once were foes ! 
Welcome, friends who once were foes, 

To all the coDquering years have 
gained, — 

A nation's rights, a race unchained ! 
Children of the day new-born, 
Mindful of its glorious morn, 
Let the pledge our fathers signed 
Heart to heart forever bind ! 

While the stars of heaven shall burn,. 
While the ocean tides return, 
Ever may the circling sun 
Find the Many still are One ! 

Graven deep with edge of steel, 
Crowned with Victory's crimson seal, 

All the world their names shall read ! 

All the world their names shall read, 
Enrolled with his, the Chief that led 
The hosts whose blood for us was shed. 

Pay our sires their children's debt, 

Love and honor, nor forget 

Only Union's golden key 

Guards the Ark of Liberty ! 

While the stars of heaven shall burn, 
While the ocean tides return, 
Ever may the circling sun 
Find the Many still are One !• 

Hail, Columbia ! strong and free, 
Throned in hearts from sea to seal 

Thy march triumphant still pursue ! 

Thy march triumphant still pursue 



With peaceful stride from zone to zone, 
Till Freedom finds the world her own 1 

Blest in Union's holy ties, 

Let our grateful song arise, 

Every voice its tribute lend, 

All in loving chorus blend ! 

While the stars in heaven shall burn, 
While the ocean tides return, 
Ever shall the circling sun 
Find the Many still are One ! 



POEM 

FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE FOUN- 
TAIN AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON, PRE- 
SENTED BY GEORGE W. CHILDS, OF 
PHILADELPHIA. 

Welcome, thrice welcome is thy silvery 

gleam, 
Thou long-imprisoned stream ! 
Welcome the tinkle of thy crystal beads 
As plashing raindrops to the flowery 

meads, 
As summer's breath to Avon's whispering 

reeds ! 
From rock-walled channels, drowned in 

rayless night, 
Leap forth to life and light ; 
Wake from the darkness of thy troubled 

dream, 
And greet with answering smile the 

morning's beam ! 

No purer lymph the white-limbed Naiad 

knows 
Than from thy chalice flows ; 
Not the bright spring of Afric's sunny 

shores, 
Starry with spangles washed from golden 

ores, 
Nor glassy stream Bandusia's fountain 

pours, 
Nor wave translucent where Sabrina fair 

Braids her loose-flowinG: hair, 
Nor the swift current, stainless as it rose 



888 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



Where chill Arveiron steals from Alpine 
snows. 

Here shall the traveller stay his weary 

feet 
To seek thy calm retreat ; 
Here at high noon the brown-armed 

reaper rest ; 
Here, when the shadows, lengthening 

from the west, 
Call the mute song-bird to his leafy nest, 
Matron and maid shall chat the cares 

away 
That brooded o'er the day, 
While flocking round them troops of 

children meet, 
And all the arches ring with laughter 

sweet. 

Here shall the steed, his patient life who 

spends 
In toil that never ends, 
Hot from his thirsty tramp o'er hill and 

plain, 
Plunge his red nostrils, while the torturing 

rein 
Drops in loose loops beside his floating 

mane ; 
Nor the poor brute that shares his master's 

lot 
Find his small needs forgot, — 
Truest of humble, long-enduring friends, 
Whose presence cheers, whose guardian 

care defends ! 

Here lark and thrush and nightingale 

shall sip, 
And skimming swallows dip, 
And strange shy wanderers fold their 

lustrous plumes 
Fragrant from bowers that lent their 

sweet perfumes 
Where Psestum's rose or Persia's lilac 

blooms ; 
Here from his cloud the eagle stoop to 

drink 
At the full basin's brink, 



And whet his beak against its rounded lip, 
His glossy feathers glistening as they 
drip. 

Here shall the dreaming poet; linger long, 

Far from his listening throng, — 
Nor lute nor lyre his trembling hand shall 

bring ; 
Here no frail Muse shall imp her crippled 

wing, 
No faltering minstrel strain his throat to 

sing! 
These hallowed echoes who shall dare to 

claim 
Whose tuneless voice would shame, 
Whose jangling chords with jarring notes 

would wrong 
The nymphs that heard the Swan of 

Avon's song ? 

What visions greet the pilgrim's raptured 

eyes ! 
What ghosts made real rise ! 
The dead return, — they breathe, — they 

live again, 
Joined by the host of Fancy's airy train, 
Fresh from the springs of Shakespeare's 

quickening brain! 
The stream that slakes the soul's diviner 

thirst 
Here found the sunbeams first; 
Rich with his fame, not less shall memory 

prize 
The gracious gift that humbler wants 

supplies. 

O'er the wide waters reached the hand 

that gave 
To all this bounteous wave, 
With health and strength and joyous 

beauty fraught ; 
Blest be the generous pledge of friend. 

ship, brought 
From the far home of brothers' love, un- 

bought ! 
Long may fair Avon's fountain flow, en. 

rolled 






OUR HOME. — OUR COUNTRY. 



389 



With storied shrines of old, 
Castalia's spring, Egeria's dewy cave, 
And Horeb's rock the God of Israel clave ! 

Land of our fathers, ocean makes us two, 

But heart to heart is true ! 
Proud is your towering daughter in the 

West, 
Yet in her burning life-blood reign confest 
Her mother's pulses beating in her breast. 
This holy fount, whose rills from heaven 
descend, 
Its gracious drops shall lend, — 
Both foreheads bathed in that baptismal 

dew, 
And love make one the old home and the 
new! 
August 29, 1887 



OUR HOME. — OUR COUNTRY. 

FOR THE TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH 
ANNIVERSARY OF THE SETTLEMENT 
OF CAMBRIDGE, MASS., DECEMBER 28, 
1880. 

Your home was mine, — kind Nature's 
gift; 

My love no years can chill ; 
In vain their flakes the storm-winds sift, 
The snow-drop hides beneath the drift, 

A living blossom still. 

Mute are a hundred long-famed lyres, 
Hushed all their golden strings; 

One lay the coldest bosom fires, 

One song, one only, never tires 
While sweet-voiced memory sings. 

No spot so lone but echo knows 

That dear familiar strain ; 
In tropic isles, on arctic snows, 
Through burning lips its music flows 

And rings its fond refrain. 

From Pisa's tower my straining sight 
Roamed wandering leagues away, 



When lo ! a frigate's banner bright, 
The starry blue, the red, the white, 
In far Livorno's bay. 

Hot leaps the life-blood from my heart, 

Forth springs the sudden tear ; 
The ship that rocks by yonder mart 
Is of my land, my life, a part, — 
Home, home, sweet home, is here ! 

Fades from my view the sunlit scene, — 

My vision spans the waves ; 
I see the elm-encircled green, 
The tower, — the steeple, — and, between, 

The field of ancient graves. 

There runs the path my feet would tread 

When first they learned to stray ; 
There stands the gambrel roof that spread 
Its quaint old angles o'er my head 
When first I saw the day. 

The sounds that met my boyish ear 

My inward sense salute, — 
The woodnotes wild I loved to hear, — 
The robin's challenge, sharp and clear, — 

The breath of evening's flute. 

The faces loved from cradle days, — 

Unseen, alas, how long ! 
As fond remembrance round them plays, 
Touched with its softening moonlight 
rays, 

Through fancy's portal throng. 

And see ! as if the opening skies 

Some angel form had spared 
Us windless mortals to surprise, 
The little maid with light-blue eyes, 

White necked and golden haired! 



So rose the picture full in view 

I paint in feebler song ; 
Such power the seamless banner knew 
Of red and white and starry blue 

For exiles banished long. 



390 



DINNER OF THE MASSACHUSETTS MEDICAL SOCIETY. 



O boys, dear boys, who wait as men 
To guard its heaven-bright folds, 
Blest are the eves that see again 
That banner, seamless now, as then, — 
The fairest earth beholds ! 

Sweet was the Tuscan air and soft 

In that unfading hour, 
And fancy leads my footsteps oft 
Up the round galleries, high aloft 

On Pisa's threatening tower. 

And still in Memory's holiest shrine 
I read with pride and joy, 
" For me those stars of empire shine ; 
That empire's dearest home is mine ; 
I am a Cambridge boy ! " 



POEM 

AT THE CENTENNIAL ANNIVERSARY DIN- 
NER OF THE MASSACHUSETTS MEDI- 
CAL SOCIETY, JUNE 8, 1881. 

Three paths there be where Learning's 

favored sons, 
Trained in the schools which hold her 

favored ones, 
Follow their several stars with separate 

aim ; 
Each has its honors, each its special 

claim. 
Bred in the fruitful cradle of the East, 
First, as of oldest lineage, comes the 

Priest ; 
The Lawyer next, in wordy conflict 

strong, 
Full armed to battle for the right, — or 

wrong ; 
Last, he whose calling finds its voice in 

deeds, 
Frail Nature's helper in her sharpest 

needs. 
Each has his gifts, his losses and his 

gains, 



Each his own share of pleasures and of 
pains ; 

No life-long aim with steadfast eye pur- 
sued 

Finds a smooth pathway all with roses 
strewed ; 

Trouble belongs to man of woman 
born, — 

Tread where he may, his foot will find its 
thorn. 

Of all the guests at life's perennial 

feast, 
Who of her children sits above the 

Priest ? 
For him the broidered robe, the carven 

seat, 
Pride at his beck, and beauty at his feet. 
For him the incense fumes, the wine is 

poured, 
Himself a God, adoring and adored ! 
His the first welcome when our hearts 

rejoice, 
His in our dying ear the latest voice, 
Font, altar, grave, his steps on all attend, 
Our staff, our stay, our all but Heavenly 

friend ! 
Where is the meddling hand that dares 

to probe 
The secret grief beneath his sable robe ? 
How grave his port ! how every gesture 

tells 
Here truth abides, here peace forever 

dwells ; 
Vex not his lofty soul with comments 

vain; 
Faith asks no questions ; silence, ye pro- 

fane ! 
Alas ! too oft while all is calm with- 
out 
The stormy spirit wars with endless 

doubt ; 
This is the mocking spectre, scarce con- 
cealed 
Behind tradition's bruised and battered 

shield. 
He sees the sleepless critic, age by age, 



The Gambrel-Roofed House, Cambridge 
Dr. Holmes's Birthplace 



DINNER OF THE MASSACHUSETTS MEDICAL SOCIETY. 



s«] 



Scrawl his new readings on the hallowed 

page, 
The wondrous deeds that priests and 

prophets saw 
Dissolved in legend, crystallized in law, 
And on the soil where saints and martyrs 

trod 
Altars new builded to the Unknown 

God; 
His shrines imperilled, his evangels 

torn, — 
He dares not limp, but ah! how sharp 

his thorn ! 
Yet while God's herald questions as he 

reads 
The outworn dogmas of his ancient 

creeds, 
Drops from his ritual the exploded verse, 
Blots from its page the Athanasian curse, 
Though by the critic's dangerous art 

perplexed, 
His holy life is Heaven's unquestioned 

text ; 
That shining guidance doubt can never 

mar, — 
The pillar's flame, the light -of Bethle- 
hem's star ! 

Strong is the moral blister that will 
draw 
Laid on the conscience of the Man of Law 
Whom blindfold Justice lends her eyes to 

see 
Truth in the scale that holds his prom- 
ised fee. 
What ! Has not everv lie its truthful 

side, 
Its honest fraction, not to be denied ? 
Per contra, — ask the moralist, in sooth 
Has not a lie its share in every truth ? 
Then what forbids an honest man to try 
To find the truth that lurks in every lie, 
And just as fairly call on truth to yield 
The lying fraction in its breast concealed ? 
So the worst rogue shall claim a ready 

friend 
Ei& modest virtues boldly to defend, 



And he who shows the record of a saint 
See himself blacker than the devil could 

paint. 
What struggles to his captive soul 

belong 
Who loves the right, yet combats for the 

wrong, 
Who fights the battle he would fain 

refuse 
And wins, well knowing that he ought to 

lose ; 
Who speaks with glowing lips and look 

sincere 
In spangled words that make the worse 

appear 
The better reason ; who, behind his 

mask 
Hides his true self and blushes at his 

task, — 
What quips, what quillets cheat the in- 
ward scorn 
That mocks such triumph ? Has he not 

his thorn ? 
Yet stay thy judgment; were thy life 

the prize, 
Thy death the forfeit, would thy cynic 

eyes 
See fault in him who bravely dares 

defend 
The cause forlorn, the wretch without a 

friend? 
Nay, though the rightful side is wisdom's 

choice 
Wrong has its rights and claims a cham- 
pion's voice ; 
Let the strong arm be lifted for the 

weak, 
For the dumb lips the fluent pleader 

speak ; — 
When with warm "rebel" blood our 

street was dyed 
Who took, unawed, the hated hirelings' 

side? 
No greener civic wreath can Adams 

claim, 
No brighter page the youthful Quincy's 

name I 



392 



DINNER OF THE MASSACHUSETTS MEDICAL SOCIETY. 



How blest is he who knows no meaner 

strife 
Than Art's long battle with the foes of 

life! 
No doubt assails him, doing still his 

best, 
And trusting kindly Nature for the rest ; 
No mocking conscience tears the thin 

disguise 
That wraps his breast, and tells him that 

he lies. 
He comes ; the languid sufferer lifts his 

head 
And smiles a welcome from his weary 

bed ; 
He speaks: what music like the tones 

that tell 
u Past is the hour of danger, — all is 

well!" 
How can he feel the petty stings of grief 
Whose cheering presence always brings 

relief ? 
What ugly dreams can trouble his repose 
Who yields himself to soothe another's 

woes? 
Hour after hour the busy day has 

found 
The good physician on his lonely round ; 
Mansion and hovel, low and lofty door, 
He knows, his journeys every path ex- 
plore, — 
Where the cold blast has struck with 

deadly chill 
The sturdy dweller on the storm-swept 

hill, 
Where by the stagnant marsh the sicken- 
ing gale 
Has blanched the poisoned tenants of the 

vale, 
Where crushed and maimed the bleeding 

victim lies, 
Where madness raves, where melancholy 

sighs, 
And where the solemn whisper tells too 

plain 
Tha4 all his science, all his art, were 

vain. 



How sweet his fireside when the day is 

done 
And cares have vanished with the setting 

sun! 
Evening at last its hour of respite bring* 
And on his couch his weary length he 

flings. 
Soft be thy pillow, servant of mankind, 
Lulled by an opiate Art could never find ; 
Sweet be thy slumber, — thou hast earned 

it well, — • 
Pleasant thy dreams ! Clang ! goes the 

midnight bell ! 
Darkness and storm ! the home is far 

away 
That waits his coming ere the break of 

day; 
The snow-clad pines their wintry plum- 
age toss, — ■ 
Doubtful the frozen stream his road must 

cross ; 
Deep lie the drifts, the slanted heaps have 

shut 
The hardy woodman in his mountain 

hut, — 
Why should thy softer frame the tempest 

braye ? 
Hast thou no life, no health, to lose or 

save? 
Look! read the answer in his patient 

eyes, — 
For him no other voice when suffering 

cries ; 
Deaf to the gale that all around him 

blows, 
A feeble whisper calls him, — and he 

goes. 
Or seek the crowded city, — summer's 

heat 
Glares burning, blinding, in the narrow < 

street, 
Still, noisome, deadly, sleeps the enven- 
omed air, 
Unstirred the yellow flag that says 

"Beware!" 
Tempt not thy fate, — one little mo- 
ment's breath 



DINNER OF THE MASSACHUSETTS MEDICAL SOCIETY. 



393 



Bears on its viewless wing the seeds of 

death ; 
Thou at whose door the glided chariots 

stand, 
Whose dear-bought skill unclasps the 

raiser's hand, 
Turn from thy fatal quest, nor cast away 
That life so precious ; let a meaner prey 
Feed the destroyer's hunger ; live to 

bless 
Those happier homes that need thy care 

no less ! 
Smiling he listens ; has he then a 

charm 
Whose magic virtues peril oan disarm ? 
No safeguard his ; no amulet he wears, 
Too well he knows that Nature never 

spares 
Her truest servant, powerless to defend 
From her own weapons her unshrinking 

friend. 
He dares the fate the bravest well might 

shim, 
Nor asks reward save only Heaven's 

" Well done ! " 
Such are the toils, the perils that he 

knows, 
Days without rest and nights without 

repose, 
Yet all unheeded for the love he bears 
His art, his kind, whose every grief he 

shares. 
Harder than these to know how small 

the part 
Nature's proud empire yields to striving 

Art; 
How, as the tide that rolls around the 

sphere 
Laughs at the mounds that delving arms 

uprear, — 
Spares some few roods of oozy earth, 

but still 
Wastes and rebuilds the planet at its 

will, 
Comes at its ordered season, night or 

noon, 
Led by the silver magnet of the moon, — 



So life's vast tide forever comes and goes, 
Unchecked, resistless, as it ebbs and 

flows. 
Hardest of all, when Art has done her 

best, 
To find the cuckoo brooding in her nest ; 
The shrewd adventurer, fresh from parts 

unknown, 
Kills off the patients Science thought her 

own ; 
Towns from a nostrum-vender get their 

name, 
Fences and walls the cure-all drug pro- 
claim, 
Plasters and pads the willing world 

beguile, 
Fair Lydia greets us with astringent 

smile, 
Munchausen's fellow - countryman un- 
locks 
His new Pandora's globule-holding box, 
And as King George inquired with puz- 
zled grin 
" How — how the devil get tha apple 

in?" 
So we ask how, — with wonder-opening 

eyes, — 
Such pygmy pills can hold such giant 

lies! 
Yes, sharp the trials, stern the daily 

tasks 
That suffering Nature from her servant 

asks ; 
His the kind office dainty menials scorn, 
His path how hard, — at every step a 

thorn I 
What does his saddening, restless slavery 

buy, 
What save a right to live, a chance to 

die, — 
To live companion of disease and pain, 
To die by poisoned shafts untimely 

slain 1 
Answer from hoary eld, majestic 

shades, — 
From Memphian courts, from Delphic 

colonnades, 



394 



TO THE POETS WHO ONLY READ AND LISTEN. 



Speak in the tones that Persia's despot 

heard 
When nations treasured every golden 

word 
The wandering echoes wafted o'er the 

seas, 
From the far isle that held Hippocrates ; 
And thou, best gift that Pergamus could 

send 
Imperial Rome, her noblest Caesar's 

friend, 
Master of masters, whose unchallenged 

sway- 
Not bold Vesalius dared to disobey ; 
Ye who while prophets dreamed of dawn- 
ing times 
Taught your rude lessons in Salerno's 

rhymes, 
And ye, the nearer sires, to whom we 

owe 
The better share of all the best we know, 
In every land an ever-growing train, 
Since wakening Science broke her rusted 

chain, — 
Speak from the past, and say what prize 

was sent 
To crown the toiling years so freely 

spent ! 
List while they speak : 

In life's uneven road 
Our willing hands have eased our bro- 
thers' load ; 
One forehead smoothed, one pang of 

torture less, 
One peaceful hour a sufferer's couch to 

bless, 
The smile brought back to fever's parch- 
ing lips, 
The light restored to reason in eclipse, 
Life's treasure rescusd like a burning 

brand 
Snatched from the dread destroyer's 

wasteful hand, — 
Such were our simple records day by 

day, 
For gains like these we wore our lives 

away. 



In toilsome paths our daily bread we 

sought, 
But bread from Heaven attending angels 

brought; 
Pain was our teacher, speaking to the 

heart, 
Mother of pity, nurse of pitying art ; 
Our lesson learned, we reached the peace- 

ful shore 
Where the pale sufferer asks our aid no 

more, — 
These gracious words our welcome, our 

reward, 
Ye served your brothers ; ye have served 

your Lord 1 



TO THE POETS WHO ONLY READ 
AND LISTEN. 

"When evening's shadowy fingers fold 

The flowers of every hue, 
Some shy, half-opened bud will hold 

Its drop of morning's dew. 

Sweeter with every sunlit hour 
The trembling sphere has grown, 

Till all the fragrance of the flower 
Becomes at last its own. 

We that have sung perchance may f ni 

Our little meed of praise, 
And round our pallid temples bind 

The wreath of fading bays : 

Ah, Poet, who hast never spent 

Thy breath in idle strains, 
For thee the dewdrop morning lent 

Still in thy heart remains ; 

Unwasted, in its perfumed cell 

It waits the evening gale ; 
Then to the azure whence it fell 

Its lingering sweets exhale. 



POEM AT THE NEW YORK DINNER. 



395 



AN IMPROMPTU 

AT THE WALCKEK DINNER UPON THE 
COMPLETION OF THE GREAT ORGAN 
FOR BOSTON MUSIC HALL. 

I asked three little maidens who heard 

the organ play 
Where all the music came from that 

stole our hearts away : 

" I know," — said fair-haired Edith, — " it 

was the autumn breeze 
That whistled through the hollows of all 

those silver trees." 

" No, child ! " — said keen-eyed Clara, — 

" it is a lion's cage, — 
They woke him out of slumber, — I 

heard him roar and rage." 

" Nay," — answered soft-voiced Anna, — 
" 't was thunder that you heard, 

And after that came sunshine and singing 
of a bird." 

" Hush, hush, you little children, for all 

of you are wrong," 
I said, " my pretty darlings, — it was no 

earthly song ; 
A band of blessed angels has left the 

heavenly choirs, 
And what you heard last evening were 

seraph lips and lyres ! " 

HYMN 

WRITTEN FOR THE GREAT CENTRAL FAIR 
IN PHILADELPHIA, 1864. 

Father, send on Earth again 

Peace and good-will to men ; 

Yet, while the weary track of life 

Leads thy people through storm and 

strife, 
Help us to walk therein. 

Guide us through the perilous path ; 
Teach us love that tempers wrath ; 



Let the fountain of mercy flow 
Alike for helpless friend and foe, 
Children all of Thine. 

God of grace, hear our call ; 

Bless our gifts, Giver of all ; 

The wounded heal, the captive restore 5 

And make us a nation evermore 

Faithful to Freedom and Thee. 



POEM 

READ AT THE DINNER GIVEN TO THE 
AUTHOR BY THE MEDICAL PROFESSION 
OF THE CITY OF NEW r YORK, APRIL 
12, 1883. 

Have I deserved your kindness ? Nay, 

my friends, 
While the fair banquet its illusion lends 
Let me believe it, though the blood may 

rush 
And to my cheek recall the maiden blush 
That o'er it flamed with momentary 

blaze 
When first I heard the honeyed words of 

praise ; 
Let me believe it while the roses wear 
Their bloom unwithering in the heated 

air; 
Too soon, too soon, their glowing leaves 

must fall, 
The laughing echoes leave the silent hall, 
Joy drop his garland, turn his empty 

cup, 
And weary Labor take his burden up, — 
How weighs that burden they can tell 

alone 
Whose dial marks no moment as their 

own. 

Am I your creditor ? Too well I know 
How Friendship pays the debt it does not 

owe, 
Shapes a poor semblance fondly to its 

mind, 
Adds all the virtues that it fails to find, 



396 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



Adorns with graces to its heart's content, 
Borrows from love what nature never 

lent, 
Till what with halo, jewels, gilding, paint, 
The veriest sinner deems himself a saint. 
Thus while you pay these honors as my 

due 
I owe my value's larger part to you, 
And in the tribute of the hour I see 
Not what I am, but what I ought to be. 

Friends of the Muse, to you of right be- 
long 

The first staid footsteps of my square- 
toed song ; 

Full well I know the strong heroic line 

Has lost its fashion since I made it mine ; 

But there are tricks old singers will not 
learn, 

And this grave measure still must serve 
my turn. 

So the old bird resumes the selfsame 
note, 

His first young summer wakened in his 
throat ; 

The selfsame tune the old canary sings, 

And all unchanged the bobolink's carol 
rings ; 

When the tired songsters of the day are 
still, 

The thrush repeats his long- remembered 
trill ; 

Age alters not the crow's persistent caw, 

The Yankee's " Haow," the stammering 
Briton's " Haw ; " 

And so the hand that takes the lyre for 
you 

Plays the old tune on strings that once 
were new. 

Nor let the rhymester of the hour deride 
The straight-backed measure with its 

stately stride ; 
It gave the mighty voice of Dryden 

scope ; 
It sheathed the steel-bright epigrams of 

Pope; 



In Goldsmith's verse it learned a sweetei 

strain ; 
Byron and Campbell wore its clanking 

chain ; 
I smile to listen while the critic's scorn 
Flouts the proud purple kings have nobly 

worn ; 
Bid each new rhymer try his dainty 

skill, 
And mould his frozen phrases as he will ; 
We thank the artist for his neat device; 
The shape is pleasing, though the stuff is 

ice. 

Fashions will change — the new costume 
allures, 

Unfading still the better type endures ; 

While the slashed doublet of the cavalier 

Gave the old knight the pomp of chanti- 
cleer, 

Our last-hatched dandy with his glass and 
stick 

Recalls the semblance of a new-born 
chick ; 

(To match the model he is aiming at 

He ought to wear an eggshell for a 
hat;) 

Which of these objects would a painter 
choose, 

And which Velasquez or Van Dyck re- 
fuse"? 

When your kind summons reached my 

calm retreat, 
Who are the friends, I questioned, I shall 

meet 1 ? 
Some in young manhood, shivering with 

desire 
To feel the genial warmth of fortune's 

fire, — 
Each with his bellows ready in his hand 
To puff the flame just waiting to be 

fanned ; 
Some heads half silvered, some with snow- 
white hair, — 
A crown ungarnished glistening here and 

there, 



POEM AT THE NEW YORK DINNER. 



397 



The mimic moonlight gleaming on the 

scalps 
As evening's empress lights the shining 

Alps ; 
But count the crowds that throng jour 

festal scenes, 
How few that knew the century in its 

teens ! 

Save for the lingering handful fate be- 
friends, 

Life's busy day the Sabbath decade ends ; 

When that is over, how with what re- 
mains 

Of nature's outfit, muscle, nerve, and 
brains ? 

Were this a pulpit I should doubtless 
preach, 

Were this a platform I should gravely 
teach, 

But to no solemn duties I pretend 

In my vocation at the table's end ; 

So as my answer let me tell instead 

What Landlord Porter — rest his soul ! 
— once said. " 

A feast it was that none might scorn to 

share ; 
Cambridge and Concord's demigods were 

there, — 
" And who were they 1 " You know as 

well as I 
The stars long glittering in our Eastern 

sky,— 
The names that blazon our provincial 

scroll 
Ring round the world with Britain's 

drumbeat roll ! 

Good was the dinner, better was the 
talk; 

Some whispered, devious was the home- 
ward walk ; 

The story came from some reporting 

spy,— 

They lie, those fellows, — oh, how they 
do lie ! 



Not ours those foot-tracks in the new- 
fallen snow, — 
Poets and sages never zigzagged so ! 

Now Landlord Porter, grave, concise, 

severe, 
Master, nay, monarch in his proper sphere, 
Though to belles-lettres he pretended 

not, 
Lived close to Harvard, so knew what 

was what ; 
And having bards, philosophers, and such, 
To eat his dinner, put the finest touch 
His art could teach, those learned mouths 

to fill 
With the best proofs of gustatory skill; 
And finding wisdom plenty at his board, 
Wit, science, learning, all his guests had 

stored, 
By way of contrast, ventured to produce, 
To please their palates, an inviting goose. 
Better it were the company should starve 
Than hands unskilled that goose attempt 

to carve ; 
None but the master-artist shall assail 
The bird that turns the mightiest surgeon 

pale. 

One voice arises from the banquet-hall, 
The landlord answers to the pleading 

call; 
Of stature tall, sublime of port he stands, 
His blade and bident gleaming in his 

hands; 
Beneath his glance the strong-knit joints 

relax 
As the weak knees before the headsman's 

axe. 

And Landlord Porter lifts his glittering 

knife 
As some stout warrior armed for bloody 

strife ; 
All eyes are on him ; some in whispers 

ask, 
What man is he who dares 'his dangerous 

task? 



398 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



When lo! the triumph of consummate 

art, 
With scarce a touch the creature drops 

apart ! 
As when the baby in his nurse's lap 
Spills on the carpet a dissected map. 

Then the calm sage, the monarch of the 
lyre, 

Critics and men of science all admire, 

And one whose wisdom I will not im- 
peach, 

Lively, not churlish, somewhat free of 
speech, 

Speaks thus : " Say, master, what of 
worth is left 

In birds like this, of breast and legs be- 
reft ? " 

And Landlord Porter, with uplifted eyes, 

Smiles on the simple querist, and replies : 

" When from a goose you ? ve taken legs 
and breast, 

Wipe lips, thank God, and leave the poor 
the rest ! " 

Kind friends, sweet friends, I hold it 

hardly fair 
With that same bird your minstrel to 

compare, 
Yet in a certain likeness we agree, 
No wrong to him and no offence to me ; 
I take him for the moral he has lent, 
My partner, — to a limited extent. 

When the stern Landlord whom we all 
obey 

Has carved from life its seventh great 
slice away, 

Is the poor fragment left in blank col- 
lapse 

A pauper remnant of unvalued scraps ? 

I care not much what Solomon has said, 
Before his time to nobler pleasures dead ; 
Poor man ! he needed half a hundred 

lives 
With such a babbling wilderness of wives ! 



But is there nothing that may well emplov 
Life's winter months, — no sunny hour of 
joy? 

While o'er the fields the howling tem- 
pests rage, 
The prisoned linnet warbles in its cage ; 
When chill November through the forest 

blows, 
The greenhouse shelters the untroubled 

rose ; 
Round the high trellis creeping tendrils 

twine, 
And the ripe clusters fill with blameless 

wine ; 
We make the vine forget the winter's 

cold, 
But how shall age forget its growing old ? 
Though doing right is better than deceit, 
Time is a trickster it is fair to cheat ; 
The honest watches ticking in your fobs 
Tell every minute how the rascal robs. 
To clip his forelock and his scythe to hide, 
To lay his hour-glass gently on its side, 
To slip the cards he marked upon the 

shelf 
And deal him others you have marked 

yourself, 
If not a virtue cannot be a sin, 
For the old rogue is sure at last to win. 
What does he leave when life is wellnigh 

spent 
To lap its evening in a calm content ? 
Art, letters, science, these at least befriend 
Our day's brief rrmnant to its peac- ful 

end, — 
Peaceful for him who shows the setting 

sun 
A record worthy of his Lord's Well done! 

When he, the master whom I will no* 



name 



Known to our calling, not unknown to 

fame, 
At life's extremest verge half conscious 

Helpless and sightless, dying day by day 



FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE NEW CITY LIBRARY, BOSTON. 399 



His brain, so long with varied wisdom 
fraught, 

Filled with the broken enginery of 
thought, 

A flitting vision often would illume 

His darkened world, and cheer its deep- 
ening gloom, — 

A sunbeam struggling through the long 
eclipse, — 

And smiles of pleasure play around his 
lips. 

He loved the art that shapes the dome 
and spire, 

The Koman's page, the ring of Byron's 
lyre, 

And oft when fitful memory would re- 
turn 

To find some fragment in her broken 
urn, 

Would wake to life some long-forgotten 
hour, 

And lea,d his thought to Pisa's terraced 
tower, 

Or trace in ligbt before bis rayless eye 

The dome-crowned Pantheon printed on 
the sky ; 

Then while the view his ravished soul 
absorbs, 

And lends a glitter to the sightless orbs, 

The patient watcher feels the stillness 
stirred 

By the faint murmur of some classic 
word, 

Or the long roll of Harold's lofty rhyme, 

" Simple, erect, severe, austere, sub- 
lime," — 

Such were the dreams that soothed his 
couch of pain, 

The sweet nepenthe of the worn-out 
brain. 

Brothers in art, who live for others' needs 
In duty's bondage, mercy's gracious 

deeds, 
Of all who toil beneath the circling sun 
Whose evening rest than yours more 

fairly won 1 



Though many a cloud your struggling 

morn obscures, 
What sunset brings a brighter sky than 

yours ? 

I, who your labors for a while have 
shared, 

New tasks have sought, with new com- 
panions fared, 

For nature's servant far too often seen 

A loiterer by the waves of Hippocrene ; 

Yet round the earlier friendship twines 
the new, 

My footsteps wander, but my heart is 
true, 

Nor e'er forgets the living or the dead 

Who trod with me the paths where science 
led. 

How can I tell you, my loving 
friends ! 

What light, what warmth, your joyous 
welcome lends 

To life's late hour ? Alas ! my song is 
sung, 

Its fading accents falter on my tongue. 

Sweet friends, if, shrinking in the ban- 
quet's blaze, 

Your blushing guest must face the breath 
of praise, 

Speak not too well of one who scarce will 
know 

Himself transfigured in its roseate glow ; 

Say kindly of him what is, chiefly, true, 

Remembering always he belongs to you ; 

Deal with him as a truant, if you will, 

But claim him, keep him, call him bro- 
ther still ! 



FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE 
NEW CITY LIBRARY, BOSTON. 

Proudly, beneath her glittering dome, 
Our three-hilled city greets the morn ; 

Here Freedom found her virgin home, — = 
The Bethlehem where her babe was 
born. 



^ 



400 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



The lordly roofs of traffic rise 
Amid the smoke of household fires ; 

High o'er them in the peaceful skies 
Faith points to heaven her clustering 
spires. 

Can Freedom breathe if ignorance reign 1 
Shall Commerce thrive where anarchs 
rule? 

'Will Faith her half-fledged brood retain 
If darkening counsels cloud the school 1 

Let in the light ! from every age 

Some gleams of garnered wisdom pour, 

And, fixed on thought's electric page, 
Wait all their radiance to restore. 

Let in the light ! in diamond mines 
Their gems invite the hand that delves ; 

So learning's treasured jewels shine 
Eanged on the alcove's ordered shelves. 

From history's scroll the splendor streams, 
From science leaps the living ray ; 

Plashed from the poet's glowing dreams 
The opal fires of fancy play. 

Let in the light ! these windowed walls 
Shall brook no shadowing colonnades, 

But day shall flood the silent halls 
Till o'er yon hills the sunset fades. 

Behind the ever open gate 

No pikes shall fence a crumbling throne, 
No lackeys cringe, no courtiers wait, — 

This palace is the people's own ! 

Heirs of our narrow-girdled past, 
How fair the prospect we survey, 

Where howled unheard the wintry blast, 
And rolled unchecked the storm-swept 
bay! 

These chosen precincts, set apart 
For learned toil and holy shrines, 

Yield willing homes to every art 
That trains, or strengthens, or refines. 



Here shall the sceptred mistress reign 
Who heeds her meanest subject's call, 

Sovereign of all their vast domain, 
The queen, the handmaid of them all! 
November 26, lo88. 



TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, 

AT THE DINNER GIVEN IN HIS HONOR 
AT THE TAVERN CLUB, ON HIS SEVEN- 
TIETH BIRTHDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 1889. 

A health to him whose double wreath 
displays 

The critic's ivy and the poet's bays; 

Who stayed not till with undisputed 
claim 

The civic garland filled his meed of fame ; 

True knight of Freedom, ere her doubt- 
ful cause 

Hose from the dust to meet the world's 
applause, 

His country's champion on the bloodless 
field 

Where - truth and manhood stand for 
spear and shield ! 

Who is the critic ? He who never 
skips 
The luckless passage where his author 

slips ; 
Slides o'er his merits, stumbles at his 

faults, 
Calls him a cripple if he sometimes halts, 
Rich in the caustic epithets that sting, 
The venom-vitriol malice loves to fling ; 
His quill a feathered fang at hate's com- 
mand, 
His ink the product of his poison-gland, — 
Is this the critic 1 Call him not a snake, — 
This noxious creature, — for the reptile's 
sake ! 
He is the critic who is first to mark 
The star of genius when its glimmering 

spark 
First pricks the sky, not waiting to pro- 
claim 



TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 



401 



Its coming glory till it bursts in flame. 

He is the critic whose divining rod 

Tells where the waters hide beneath the 

sod; 
Whom studious search through varied 

lore has taught 
The streams, the rills, the fountain-heads, 

of thought ; 
Who, if some careless phrase, some slip- 
shod clause, 
Crack Priscian's skull or break Quintil- 

ian's laws, 
Points out the blunder in a kindly way, 
Nor tries his larger wisdom to display. 
Where will you seek him 1 Wander far 

and wide, 
Then turn and find him seated at your 

side! 

Who is the poet 1 He who matches 

rhymes 
In the last fashion of the new-born 

times ; 
Sweats over sonnets till the toil seems 

worse 
Than Heaven intended in the primal 

curse ; 
Work, duties, pleasures, every claim for- 
gets, 
To shape his rondeaus and his triolets 1 
Or is it he whose random venture throws 
His lawless whimseys into moonstruck 

prose, 
Where they who worship the barbarian's 

creed 
Will find a rhythmic cadence as they 

read, 
As the pleased rustic hears a tune, or 

thinks 
He hears a tune, in every bell that clinks ? 
Are these the poets 1 Though their pens 

should blot 
A thousand volumes, surely such are not. 
Who is the poet ? He whom Nature 

chose 
In that sweet season when she made the 

rose. 



Though with the changes of our colder 
clime 

His birthday will come somewhat out of 
time. 

Through all the shivering winter's frost 
and chill 

The bloom and fragrance cling around it 
still. 

He is the poet who can stoop to read 

The secret hidden in a wayside weed ; 

Whom June's warm breath with child- 
like rapture fills, 

Whose spirit "dances with the daffo- 
dils ; " 

Whom noble deeds with noble thoughts 
inspire 

And lend his verse the true Promethean 
fire; 

Who drinks the waters of enchanted 
streams 

That wind and wander through the land 
of dreams ; 

For whom the unreal is the real world, 

Its fairer flowers with brighter dews im- 
pearled. 

He looks a mortal till he spreads his 
wings, — 

He seems an angel when he soars and 
sings ! 

Behold the poet ! Heaven his days pro- 
long, 

Whom Elmwood's nursery cradled into 
song! 

Who is the patriot? He who deftly 

bends 
To every shift that serves his private 

ends, 
His face all smiling while his conscience 

squirms, 
His back as limber as a canker worm's ; 
Who sees his* country floundering through 

a drift, 
Nor stirs a hand the laboring wheel to lift, 
But trusts to Nature's leisure-loving law. 
And waits with patience for the snow to 

thaw 1 ? 



402 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



Or is he one who, called to conflict, 
draws 
His trusty weapon in his country's cause j 
Who, born a poet, grasps his trenchant 

rhymes 
And strikes unshrinking at the nation's 

crimes ; 
Who in the days of peril learns to teach 
The wisest lessons in the homeliest 

speech ; 
Whose plain good sense, alive with tin- 
gling wit, 
Can always find a handle that will fit; 
Who touches lightly with Ithuriel spear 
The toad close squatting at the people's 

ear, 
And bids the laughing, scornful world 

descry 
The masking demon, the incarnate lie 1 
This, this is he his country well may say 
Is fit to share her savior's natal day ! 
Think not the date a worn-out king 
assigned 
As Life's full measure holds for all man- 
kind ; 
Shall Gladstone, crowned with eighty 

years, withdraw 1 
See, nearer home, the Lion of the Law — 
How Court Street trembles when he 

leaves his den, 
Clad in the pomp of four score years and 
ten! 

Once more the health of Nature's fa- 
vored son, 

The poet, critic, patriot, all in one ; 

Health, honor, friendship, ever round him 
wait 

In life's fair field beyond the seven-barred 
gate ! 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

1819-1891. 
Thou shouldst have sung the swan-song 
for the choir 
That filled our groves with music till 
the day 



Lit the last hilltop with its reddening 
fire, 
And evening listened for thy lingering 
lay. 

But thou hast found thy voice in realms 
afar 
Where strains celestial blend their notes 
with thine ; 
Some cloudless sphere beneath a happier 
star 
Welcomes the bright-winged spirit we 
resign. 

How Nature mourns thee in the still re- 
treat 
Where passed in peace thy love -en- 
chanted hours ! 
Where shall she find an eye like thine to 
greet 
Spring's earliest footprints on her open- 
ing flowers ? 

Have the pale wayside weeds no fond 
regret 
For him who read the secrets they en- 
fold 1 
Shall the proud spangles of the field forget 
The verse that lent new glory to their 
gold? 

And ye whose carols wooed his infant ear. 
Whose chants with answering wood 
notes he repaid, 
Have ye no song his spirit still may heai 
From Elmwood's vaults of overarch- 
ing shade ? 

Friends of his studious hours, who 
thronged to teach 
The deep-read scholar all your varied 
lore, 
Shall he no longer seek your shelves to 
reach 
The treasure missing from his world 
wide store 1 



BUT ONE TALENT. 



403 



This singer whom we long have held so 
dear 
Was Nature's darling, shapely, strong, 
and fair ; 
Of keenest wit, of judgment crystal-clear, 
Easy of converse, courteous, debonair. 

Fit for the loftiest or the lowliest lot, 
Self-poised, imperial, yet of simplest 
ways ; 
At home alike in castle or in cot, 

True to his aim, let others blame or 
praise. 

Freedom he found an heirloom from his 
sires ; 
Song, letters, statecraft, shared his 
years in turn ; 
All went to feed the nation's altar-fires 
Whose mourning children wreathe his 
funeral urn. 

He loved New England, — people, lan- 
guage, soil, 
Unweaned by exile from her arid breast. 
Farewell awhile, white-handed son of 
toil, 
Go with her brown-armed laborers to 
thy rest. 

Peace to thy slumber in the forest shade ! 

Poet and patriot, every gift was thine ; 

Thy name shall live while summers bloom 

and fade, 

And grateful Memory guard thy leafy 

shrine ! 

FOR THE WINDOW IN ST. MAR- 
GARET'S. 

IN MEMORY" OF A SON OF ARCHDEACON 
FARRAR. 

Afar he sleeps whose name is graven 

here, 
Where loving hearts his early doom 

deplore ; 
South, promise, virtue, all that made him 

dear 



Heaven lent, earth borrowed, sorrowing 

to restore. 
Boston, April 12, 1891. 



BUT ONE TALENT. 

Ye who yourselves of larger worth es- 
teem 

Than common mortals, listen to my 
dream, 

And learn the lesson of life's cozening 
cheat, 
The coinage of conceit. 

— The angel, guardian of my youth and 

age, 
Spread out before me an account-book's 

page, 
Saying, " This column marks what thou 

dost owe, — 
The gain thou hast to show." 

" Spirit," I said, " I know, alas ! too well 
How poor the tale thy record has to 

tell. 
Much I received, — the little I have 

brought 
Seems by its side as naught. 

"Five talents, all of Ophir's purest gold, 
These five fair caskets ranged before thee 

hold; 
The first can show a few poor shekels' 

gain, 
The rest unchanged remain. 

"Bringing my scanty tribute, overawed, 
To Him who reapeth where He hath not 

strawed, 
I tremble like a culprit when I count 
My whole vast debt's amount. 

" What will He say to one from whom 

were due 
Ten talents, when he comes with less than 

two % 



404 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



What can I do but shudder and await 
The slothful servant's fate ? " 

< — As looks a mother on an erring child, 
The angel looked me in the face and 

smiled : 
" How couldst thou, reckoning with thy- 
self, contrive 
To count thy talents five ? 

" These caskets which thy flattering 

fancies gild 
Not all with Ophirs precious ore are 

filled ; 
Thy debt is slender, for thy gift was 

small : 
One talent, — that was all. 

" This second casket, with its grave pre- 
tence, 

Is weighty with thine ignorance, dark 
and dense, 

Save for a single glowworm's glimmering 
light 
To mock its murky night. 

" The third conceals the dulness that 

was thine. 
How could thy mind its lack of wit 

divine 1 
Let not what Heaven assigned thee bring 

thee blame ; 
Thy want is not thy shame, 

" The fourth, so light to lift, so rair to 

see, 
Is filled to bursting with thy vanity, 
The vaporous breath that kept thy hopes 
alive 
By counting one as five. 

"These held but little, but the fifth held 

less, — 
Only blank vacuum, naked nothingness, 
An idiot's portion. He who gave it 
knows 
Its claimant nothing owes. 



" Thrice happy pauper he whose last ac 

count 
Shows on the debtor side the least 

amount ! 
The more thy gifts, the more thou needs 

must pay 
On life's dread reckoning day." 

— Humbled, not grieving to be unde- 
ceived, 

I woke, from fears of hopeless debt re- 
lieved : 

For sparing gifts but small returns are 
due, — 
Thank Heaven I had so few ! 



IN MEMORY OF JOHN GREENLEAF 
WHITTIER. 

DECEMBER 17, 1807 — SEPTEMBER 7, 1892. 

Thou, too, hast left us. While with 
heads bowed low, 
And sorrowing hearts, we mourned our 
summer's dead, 
The flying season bent its Parthian 
bow, 
And yet again our mingling tears were 
shed. 

Was heaven impatient that it could not 
wait 
The blasts of winter for earth's fruits 
to fall ? 
Were angels crowding round the open 
gate 
To greet the spirits coming at their 
call? 

Nay, let not fancies, born of old beliefs, 
Play with the heart-beats that are 
throbbing still, 
And waste their outworn phrases on the 
griefs, 
The silent griefs that words can onlv 
chill. 



TO THE TEACHERS OF AMERICA. 



405 



Bor thee, dear friend, there needs no 
high-wrought lay. 
To shed its aureole round thy cher- 
ished name, — 
Thou whose plain, home-born speech of 
Yea and Nay 
Thy truthful nature ever best became. 

Death reaches not a spirit such as 
thine, — 
It can but steal the robe that hid thy 
wings ; 
Though thy warm breathing presence we 
resign, 
Still in our hearts its loving semblance 
clings. 

Peaceful thy message, yet for struggling 
right, — 
When Slavery's gauntlet in our face 
was flung, — 
While timid weaklings watched the dubi- 
ous fight 
No herald's challenge more defiant 
rung. 

Yet was thy spirit tuned to gentle 
themes 
Sought in the haunts thy humble youth 
had known. 
Our stern New England's hills and vales 
and streams, — 
Thy tuneful idyls made them all their 
own. 

The wild flowers springing from thy 
native sod 
Lent all their charms thy new-world 
song to fill, — 
Gave thee the mayflower and the golden- 
rod 
To match the daisy and the daffodil. 

In the brave records of our earlier time 
A hero's deed thy generous soul in- 
spired, 



And many a legend, told in ringing 
rhyme, 
The youthful soul with high resolve 
has fired. 

Not thine to lean on priesthood's broken 
reed ; 
No barriers caged thee in a bigot's fold ; 
Did zealots ask to syllable thy creed, 
Thou saidst " Our Father," and thy 
creed was told. 

Best loved and saintliest of our singing 
train, 
Earth's noblest tributes to thy name 
belong. 
A lifelong record closed without a stain, 
A blameless memory shrined in death- 
less song. 

Lift from its quarried ledge a flawless 
stone ; 
Smooth the green turf and bid the 
tablet rise, 
And on its snow-white surface carve alone 
These words, — he needs no more, — 
Here Whittier Lies. 



TO THE TEACHERS OF AMERICA, 

FEBRUARY 23, 1S93. 

Teachers of teachers ! Yours the task, 
Noblest that noble minds can ask, 
High up Aonia's murmurous mount, 
To watch, to guard the sacred fount 

That feeds the streams below ; 
To guide the hurrying flood that fills 
A thousand silvery rippling rills 

In ever-widening flow. 

Rich is the harvest from the fields 
That bounteous Nature kindly yields, 
But fairer growths enrich the soil 
Ploughed deep by thought's unwearied 
toil 



406 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



In Learning's broad domain. 
And where the leaves, the flowers, the 

fruits, 
Without your watering at the roots, 

To fill each branching vein ? 

Welcome ! the Author's firmest friends, 
Your voice the surest Godspeed lends. 
Of you the growing mind demands 
The patient care, the guiding hands, 

Through all the mists of morn. 
And knowing well the future's need, 
Your prescient wisdom sows the seed 

To flower in years unborn. 



YOUTH. 

READ AT THE THIRTY-FIRST ANNIVER- 
SARY OF THE BOSTON YOUNG MEN'S 
CHRISTIAN UNION, MAY 31, 1882. 

Why linger round the sunken wrecks 

Where old Armadas found their graves? 
Why slumber on the sleepy decks 

While foam and clash the angry waves ? 
Up! when the storm-blast rends the clouds, 

And winged with ruin sweeps the gale, 
Young feet must climb the quivering 
shrouds, 

Young hands must reef the bursting 
sail! 

Leave us to fight the tyrant creeds 

Who felt their shackles, feel their scars ; 
The cheerful sunlight little heeds 

The brutes that prowled beneath the 
stars ; 
The dawn is here, the day star shows 

The spoils of many a battle won, 
But sin and sorrow still are foes 

That face us in the morning sun. 

Who sleeps beneath yon bannered mound 
The proudly sorrowing mourner seeks, 

The garland-bearing crowd surrounds ? 
A light-haired boy with beardless 
cheeks ! 



'T is time this " fallen world " should rise ; 

Let youth the sacred work begin ! 
What nobler task, what fairer prize 

Than earth to save and Heaven to win ? 

HYMN 

WRITTEN FOR THE TWENTY-FIFTH AN.. 
NIVERSARY OF THE REORGANIZATION 
OF THE BOSTON YOUNG MEN'S CHRIS- 
TIAN UNION, MAY 31, 1893. 

Tune "Dundee." 

Our Father ! while our hearts unlearn 
The creeds that wrong Thy name, 

Still let our hallowed altars burn 
With Faith's undying flame ! 

Not by the lightning-gleams of wrath 
Our souls Thy face shall see, 

The star of Love must light the path 
That leads to Heaven and Thee. 

Help us to read our Master's wiF 
Through every darkening stam 

That clouds His sacred image still. 
And see Him once again, 

The brother man, the pitying friend, 
Who weeps for human woes, 

Whose pleading words of pardon blend 
With cries of raging foes. 

If 'mid the gathering storms of doubt, 
Our hearts grow faint and cold, 

The strength we cannot live without 
Thy love will not withhold. 

Our prayers accept; our sins forgive; 

Our youthful zeal renew ; 
Shape for us holier lives to live, 

And nobler work to do ! 

FRANCIS PARKMAN. 

SEPTEMBER 16, 1823 — NOVEMBER 3, 1893. 

He rests from toil; the portals of the 
tomb 



FRANCIS PARKMAN. 



407 



Close on the last of those unwearying 
hands 
That wove their pictured webs in His- 
tory's loom, 
Rich with the memories of three dis- 
tant lands. 

One wrought the record of the Royal 
Pair 

Who saw the great Discoverer's sail 

unfurled, 
Happy his more than regal prize to share, 
The spoils, the wonders, of the sunset 

world. 

There, too, he found his theme ; upreared 
anew, 
Our eyes beheld the vanished Aztec 
shrines, 
And all the silver splendors of Peru 
That lured the conqueror to her fatal 
mines. 

Nor less remembered he who told the 
tale 
Of empire wrested from the strangling 
sea; 
Of Leyden's woe, that turned his readers 
pale, 
The price of unborn freedom yet to be ; 

Who taught the New World what the 
Old could teach ; 
Whose silent hero, peerless as our own, 
By deeds that mocked the feeble breath 
of speech 
Called up to life a State without a 
Throne. 

As year by year his tapestry unrolled, 
What varied wealth its growing length 
displayed ! 
What long processions flamed in cloth of 
gold! 
What stately forms their flowing robes 
arrayed ! 



Not such the scenes our later craftsman 
drew ; 
Not such the shapes his darker pattern 
held; 
A deeper shadow lent its sober hue, 
A sadder tale his tragic task compelled. 

He told the red man's story ; far and wide 
He searched the unwritten records of 
his race ; 
He sat a listener at the Sachem's side. 
He tracked the hunter through his 
wildwood chase. 

High o'er his head the soaring eagle 
screamed ; 
The wolf's long howl rang nightly; 
through the vale 
Tramped the lone bear ; the panther's 
eyeballs gleamed ; 
The bison's gallop thundered on the 
gale. 

Soon o'er the horizon rose the cloud of 
strife, — 
Two proud, strong nations battling for 
the prize, — 
Which swarming host should mould a 
nation's life, 
Which royal banner flout the western 
skies. 

Long raged the conflict ; on the crimson 
sod 
Native and alien joined their hosts in 
vain; 
The lilies withered where the Lion trod, 
Till Peace lay panting on the ravaged 
p'ain. 

A nobler task was theirs who strove to 
win 
The blood-stained heathen to the Chris- 
tian fold, 

To free from Satan's clutch the slaves of 
sin; 



408 



BEFORE THE CURFEW AND OTHER POEMS. 



Their labors, too, with loving grace he 
told. 

Halting with feeble step, or bending o'er 
The sweet-breathed roses which he 
loved so well, 
While through long years his burdening 
cross he bore, 
From those firm lips no coward accents 
fell. 

A brave, bright memory ! his stainless 
shield 
No shame defaces and no envy mars ! 
When our far future's record is un- 
sealed, 
His name will shine among its morning 
stars. 

HARVARD. 

READ AT COMMENCEMENT DINNER, 
JULY 1, 1880. 

Changeless in beauty, rose-hues on her 
cheek, 

Old walls, old trees, old memories all 
around 

Lend her unfading youth their charm 
antique 

And fill with mystic light her holy ground. 

Here the lost dove her leaf of promise 
found 

While the new morning showed its blush- 
ing streak 

Far o'er the waters she had crossed to 
seek 

The bleak, wild shore in billowy forests 
drowned. 

Mother of scholars ! on thy rising throne 

Thine elder sisters look benignant down ; 

England's proud twins, and they whose 
cloisters own 

The fame of Abelard, the scarlet gown 

That laughing Rabelais wore, not yet out- 
grown — 

And on thy forehead place the New 
World's crown. 



AFTER THE CURFEW. 

1889. 

The Play is over. While the light 
Yet lingers in the darkening hall, 

I come to say a last Good-night 
Before the final Exeunt all. 

We gathered once, a joyous throng : 
The jovial toasts went gayly round ; 

With jest, and laugh, and shout, and 
song, 
We made the floors and walls resound. 

We come with feeble steps and slow. 

A little band of four or five, 
Left from the wrecks of long ago, 

Still pleased to find ourselves alive. 

Alive ! How living, too, are they 
Whose memories it is ours to share ! 

Spread the long table's full array, — 
There sits a ghost in every ehair ! 

One breathing form no more, alas ! 

Amid our slender group we see ; 
With him we still remained "The 
Class," — 

Without his presence what are we 1 

The hand we ever loved to clasp, — 
That tireless hand which knew no 
rest, — 

Loosed from affection's clinging grasp, 
Lies nerveless on the peaceful breast. 

The beaming eye, the cheering voice, 
That lent to life a generous glow, 

Whose every meaning said " Rejoice," 
We see, we hear, no more below. 

The air seems darkened by his loss, 
Earth's shadowed features look less 
fair, 

And heavier weighs the daily cross 
His willing shoulders helped us bear. 



AFTER THE CURFEW. 



409 



Why mourn that we, the favored few 
Whom grasping Time so long has 
spared 

Life's sweet illusions to pursue, 
The common lot of age have shared ? 

In every pulse of Friendship's heart 

There breeds unfelt a throb of pain, — 
One hour must rend its links apart, 



Though years on years have forged the 
chain. 



So ends " The Boys," — a lifelong play. 

We too must hear the Prompter', 
call 
To fairer scenes and brighter day : 

Farewell ! I let the curtain falL 






POEMS 



FROM 



OVER THE TEACUPS. 



TO THE ELEVEN LADIES 

WHO PRESENTED ME WITH A SILVER 
LOVING CUP ON THE TWENTY-NINTH 
OP AUGUST, M DCCC LXXXIX. 

" Who gave this cup 1 " The secret thou 

wouldst steal 
T ts brimming flood forbids it to reveal : 
No mortal's eye shall read it till he first 
Cool the red throat of thirst. 

If on .the golden floor one draught re- 
main, 

Trust me, thy careful search will be in 
vain; 

Not till the bowl is emptied shalt thou 
know 
The names enrolled below. 

Deeper than Truth lies buried in her well 
Those modest names the graven letters 

spell 
Hide from the sight ; but wait, and thou 
shalt see 
Who the good angels be 

Whose bounty glistens in the beauteous 

gift 
That friendly hands to loving lips shall 

lift: 
Turn the fair goblet when its floor is 

dry,— 
Their names shall meet thine eye. 



Count thou their number on the beads of 

Heaven : 
Alas ! the clustered Pleiads are but seven; 
Nay, the nine sister Muses are too few, — 
The Graces must add two. 

" For whom this gift ? " For one who al 

too long 
Clings to his bough among the groves of 

song; 
Autumn's last leaf, that spreads its faded 

wing 
To greet a second spring. 

Dear friends, kind friends, whate'er the 

cup may hold, 
Bathing its burnished depths, will change 

to gold : 
Its last bright drop let thirsty Masnads 

drain, 
Its fragrance will remain. 

Better love's perfume in the empty bowl 
Than wine's nepenthe for the aching 

soul; 
Sweeter than song that ever poet sung, 
It makes an old heart young ! 

THE PEAU DE CHAGRIN OF STATE 
STREET. 

How beauteous is the bond 
In the manifold array 



LA MAISON D ? OR. 



411 






Oi its promises to pay, 
While the eight per cent it gives 
And the rate at which one lives 
Correspond ! 

But at last the bough is bare 
Where the coupons one by one 
Through their ripening days have run, 
And the bond, a beggar now, 
Seeks investment anyhow, 
Anywhere ! 

CACOETHES SCRIBENDI. 

If all the trees in all the woods were 

men; 
And each and every blade of grass a pen ; 
If every leaf on every shrub and tree 
Turned to a sheet of foolscap ; every sea 
Were changed to ink, and all earth's liv- 
ing tribes 
Had nothing else to do but act as scribes, 
And for ten thousand ages, day and 

night, 
The human race should write, and write, 

and write, 
Till all the pens and paper were used up, 
And the huge inkstand was an empty cup, 
Still would the scribblers clustered round 

its brink 
Call for more pens, more paper, and more 
ink. 

THE ROSE AND THE FERN. 

Lady, life's sweetest lesson wouldst thou 
learn, 
Come thou with me to Love's enchanted 
bower : 
High overhead the trellised roses burn ; 
Beneath thy feet behold the feathery 
fern, — 
A leaf without a flower. 

What though the rose leaves fall ? They 
still are sweet, 
And have been lovely in their beau- 
teous prime, 

While the bare frond seems ever to repeat, 



"For us no bud, no blossom, wakes to 
greet 
The joyous flowering time ! " 

Heed thou the lesson. Life has leaves to 
tread 
And flowers to cherish ; summer round 
thee glows ; 
Wait not till autumn's fading robes are 

shed, 
But while its petals still are burning red 
Gather life's full-blown rose ! 

I LIKE YOU AND I LOVE YOU. 

I like you met I love you, face to 
face; 
The path was narrow, and they could 

not pass. 
I like you smiled ; I love you cried, 
Alas! 
And so they halted for a little space. 

" Turn thou and go before," I love you 
said, 
" Down the green pathway, bright with 

many a flower ; 
Deep in the valley, lo ! my bridal 
bower 
Awaits thee." But I like you shook 
his head. 

Then while they lingered on the span- 
wide shelf 
That shaped a pathway round the 

rocky ledge, 
I like you bared his icy dagger's 
edge, 
And first he slew I love you, — then 
himself. 

LA MAISON D'OR. 

(bar harbor.^ 

From this fair home behold on either 
side 
The restful mountains or the restless 
sea: 



412 



POEMS FROM OVER THE TEACUPS. 



So the warm sheltering walls of life 
divide 
Time and its tide from still eternity. 

Look on the waves : their stormy voices 
teach 
That not on earth may toil and strug- 
gle cease. 
Look on the mountains ; better far than 
speech 
Their silent promise of eternal peace. 



TOO YOUNG FOR LOVE. 

Too young for love ? 

Ah, say not so ! 
Tell reddening rose-buds not to blow ! 
Wait not for spring to pass away, — 
Love's summer months begin with May ! 

Too young for love ? 

Ah, say not so ! 

Too young 1 Too young 1 

Ah, no ! no ! no ! 

Too young for love ? 

Ah, say not so, 
While daisies bloom and tulips glow ! 
June soon will come with lengthened 

day 
To practise all love learned in May. 

Too young for love ? 

Ah, say not so ! 

Too young % Too young ? 

Ah, no ! no ! no ! 



THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN ; OR, 
THE RETURN OF THE WITCHES. 

Look out ! Look out, boys ! Clear the 

track ! 
The witches are here ! They 've all come 

back ! 
They hanged them high, — No use ! No 

use ! 
What cares a witch for a hangman's 

noose 1 



They buried them deep, but they would n't 

lie still, 
For cats and witches are hard to kill ; 
They swore they should n't and would n't 

die, — 
Books said they did, but they lie ! they lie '• 

A couple of hundred years, or so, 

They had knocked about in the world 

below, 
When an Essex Deacon dropped in to 

call, 
And a homesick feeling seized them all ; 
For he came from a place they knew full 

well, 
And many a tale he had to tell. 
They longed to visit the haunts of men, 
To see the old dwellings they knew again, 
And ride on their broomsticks all around 
Their wide domain of unhallowed ground. 

In Essex county there 's many a roof 
Well known to him of the cloven hoof ; 
The small square windows are full in view 
Which the midnight hags went sailing 

through, 
On their well-trained broomsticks mount- 
ed high, 
Seen like shadows against the sky ; 
Crossing the track of owls and bats, 
Hugging before them their coal-black 
cats. 

Well did they know, those gray old 

wives, 
The sights we see in our daily drives : 
Shimmer of lake and shine of sea, 
Browne's bare hill with its lonely tree, 
(It was n't then as we see it now, 
With one scant scalp-lock to shade its 

brow ;) 
Dusky nooks in the Essex woods, 
Dark, dim, Dante-like solitudes, 
Where the tree-toad watches the sinuous 

snake 
Glide through his forests of fern and 

brake ; 



On many a car you '11 see 

A broomstick plain as plain can be ; 
On every stick there 's a witch astride, 
The string you see to her leg is tied 



/ 






THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN. 



413 



Ipswich River ; its old stone bridge ; 
Far off xYndover's Indian Ridge, 
And many a scene where history tells 
Some shadow of bygone terror dwells, — 
Of " Norman's Woe " with its tale of 

dread, 
Of the Screeching Woman of Marble- 
head, 
(The fearful story that turns men pale : 
Don't bid me tell it, — my speech would 
fail.) 

Who would not, will not, if he can, 
Bathe in the breezes of fair Cape Ann, — 
Rest in the bowers her bays enfold, 
Loved by the sachems and squaws of 

old? 
Home where the white magnolias bloom, 
Sweet with the bayberry's chaste per- 
fume, 
Hugged by the woods and kissed by the 

sea ! 
Where is the Eden like to thee ? 
For that "couple of hundred years, or 

so," 
There had been no peace in the world 

below ; 
The witches still grumbling, " It is n't 

fair ; 
Come, give us a taste of the upper air ! 
We 've had enough of your sulphur 

springs, 
And the evil odor that round them clings ; 
We long for a drink that is cool and 

nice, — 
Great buckets of water with Wenham 

ice ; 
We 've served you well up-stairs, you 

know ; 
You 're a good old — fellow — come, let 



us go 



i » 



1 don't feel sure of his being good, 

But he happened to be in a pleasant 

mood, — 
As fiends with their skins full sometimes 

are, — 



(He 'd been drinking with " roughs " at a 

Boston bar.) 
So what does he do but up and shout 
To a graybeard turnkey, " Let 'em out ! " 

To mind his orders was all he knew; 

The gates swung open, and out they flew. 

" Where are our broomsticks 1 " the bel- 
dams cried. 

" Here are your broomsticks," an imp re- 
plied. 

" They 've been in — the place you know 
— so long 

They smell of brimstone uncommon 
strong ; 

But they 've gained by being left alone, — 

Just look, and you '11 see how tall they 've 
grown." 

" And where is my cat 1" a vixen 
squalled. 

" Yes, where are our cats ? " the witches 
bawled, 

And began to call them all by name : 

As fast as they called the cats, they came : 

There was bob-tailed Tommy and long- 
tailed Tim, 

And wall-eyed Jacky and green-eyed Jim, 

And splay-foot Benny and slim-legged 
Beau, 

And Skinny and Squally, and Jerry and 
Joe, 

And many another that came at call, — 

It would take too long to count them all. 

All black, — one could hardly tell which 
was which, 

But every cat knew his own old witch ; 

And she knew hers as hers knew her, — 

Ah, did n't they curl their tails and purr ! 

No sooner the withered hags were free 
Than out they swarmed for a midnight 

spree ; 
I could n't tell all they did in rhymes, 
But the Essex people had dreadful times. 
The Swampscott fishermen still relate 
How a strange sea-monster stole then 

bait; 



414 



POEMS FROM OVER THE TEACUPS. 



How their nets were tangled in loops and 
knots, 

And they found dead crabs in their lob- 
ster-pots. 

Poor Danvers grieved for her blasted 
crops, 

And Wilmington mourned over mildewed 
hops. 

A blight played havoc with Beverly 
beans, — 

It was all the work of those hateful 
queans ! 

A dreadful panic began at " Pride's," 

Where the witches stopped in their mid- 
night rides, 

And there rose strange rumors and vague 
alarms 

'Mid the peaceful dwellers at Beverly 
Farms. 

Now when the Boss of the * Beldams 
found 

That without his leave they were ramp- 
ing round, 

He called, — they could hear him twenty 
miles, 

From Chelsea beach to the Misery Isles ; 

The deafest old granny knew his tone 

Without the trick of the telephone. 

" Come here, you witches ! Come here ! " 
says he, — 

" At your games of old, without asking 
me ! 

I '11 give you a little job to do 

That will keep you stirring, you godless 
crew ! " 

They came, of course, at their master's 

call, 
The witches, the broomsticks, the cats, 

and all ; 
He led the hags to a railway train 
The horses were trying to drag in vain. 
u Now, then," says he, " you Ve had your 

fun, 
And here are the cars you 've got to run. 
The driver may just unhitch his team, 



We don't want horses, we don't want 

steam ; 
You may keep your old black cats to 

hug, 
But the loaded train you 've got to lug." 

Since then on many a car you '11 see 

A broomstick plain as plain can be ; 

On every stick there 's a witch astride, — 

The string you see to her leg is tied. 

She will do a mischief if she can, 

But the string is held by a careful man, 

And whenever the evil-minded witch 

Would cut some caper, he gives a twitch. 

As for the hag, you can't see her, 

But hark ! you can hear her black cat'g 

purr, 
And now and then, as a car goes by, 
You may catch a gleam from her wicked 

eye. 

Often you 've looked on a rushing train, 
But just what moved it was not so plain. 
It could n't be those wires above, 
For they could neither pull nor shove ; 
Where was the motor that made it go 
You could n't guess, but now you know. 

Remember my rhymes when you ride 

again 
On the rattling rail by the broomstick 

train! 



TARTARUS. 

While in my simple gospel creed 
That " God is Love" so plain I read, 
Shall dreams of heathen birth affright 
My pathway through the coming night ? 
Ah, Lord of life, though spectres pale 
Fill with their threats the shadowy vale, 
With Thee my faltering steps to aid. 
How can I dare to be afraid ? 

Shall mouldering page or fading scroll 
Outface the charter of the soul 1 



AT THE TURN OF THE ROAD. 



415 



Shall priesthood's palsied arm protect 
The wrong our human hearts reject, 
And smite the lips whose shuddering 

cry 
Proclaims a cruel creed a lie 1 
The wizard's rope we disallow 
Was justice once, — is murder now ! 

Is there a world of blank despair, 
And dwells the Omnipresent there ? 
Does He behold with smile serene 
The shows of that unending scene, 
Where sleepless, hopeless anguish lies, 
And, ever dying, never dies 1 
Say, does He hear the sufferer's groan, 
And is that child of wrath his own ? 

O mortal, wavering in thy trust, 
Lift thy pale forehead from the dust ! 
The mists that cloud thy darkened eyes 
Fade ere they reach the o'erarching 

skies ! 
When the blind heralds of despair 
Would bid thee doubt a Father's care, 
Look up from earth, and read above 
On heaven's blue tablet, God is Love ! 



AT THE TURN OF THE ROAD. 

The glory has passed from the golden- 
rod's plume, 

The purple-hued asters still linger in 
bloom : 

The birch is bright yellow, the sumachs 
are red, 

The maples like torches aflame over- 
head. 

But what if the joy of the summer is 

past, 
And winter's wild herald is blowing his 

blast ? 
For me dull November is sweeter than 

May, 
For my love is its sunshine, — she meets 

me to-day ! 



Will she come 1 Will the ring-dove re- 
turn to her nest ? 

Will the needle swing back from the east 
or the west ? 

At the stroke of the hour she will be at 
her gate ; 

A friend may prove laggard, — love 
never comes late. 

Do I see her afar in the distance ? Not 

yet. 
Too early ! Too early ! She could not 

forget ! 
When I cross the old bridge where the 

brook overflowed, 
She will flash full in sight at the turn of 

the road. 

I pass the low wall where the ivy en- 
twines ; 

I tread 'the brown pathway that leads 
through the pines ; 

I haste by the boulder that lies in the 
field, 

Where her promise at parting was lov- 
ingly sealed. 

Will she come by the hillside or round 

through the wood ? 
Will she wear her brown dress or her 

mantle and hood ? 
The minute draws near, — but her watch 

may go wrong ; 
My heart will be asking, What keeps her 

so long ? 

Why doubt for a moment 1 More shame 
if I do ! 

Why question ? Why tremble ? Are an- 
gels more true ? 

She would come to the lover who calls 
her his own 

Though she trod in the track of a whirl- 
ing cyclone ! 

I crossed the old bridge ere the minute 
had passed. 



416 



POEMS FROM OVER THE TEACUPS. 



I looked : lo ! my Love stood before me 

at last. 
Her eyes, how they sparkled, her cheeks, 

how they glowed, 
As we met, face to face, at the turn of 

the road ! 



INVITA MINERVA. 

Vex not the Muse with idle prayers — 

She will not hear thy call ; 
She steals upon thee unawares, 

Or seeks thee not at all. 

Soft as the moonbeams when they sought 
Endymion's fragrant bower, 



She parts the whispering leaves of thought 
To show her full-blown flower. 

For thee her wooing hour has passed, 
The singing birds have flown, 

And winter comes with icy blast 
To chill thy buds unblown. 

Yet, though the woods no longer thrill 

As once their arches rung, 
Sweet echoes hover round thee still 

Of songs thy summer sung. 

Live in thy past ; await no more 
The rush of heaven-sent wings ; 

Earth still has music left in store 
While Memory sighs and sings. 



Il ^s 



NOTES. 




NOTES. 



Page 1. 

"Old Ironsides." 

This was the popular name by which 

the frigate "Constitution" was known. 

The poem was first printed in the Boston 

Daily Advertiser, at the time when it was 

proposed to break up the old ship as unfit 

for service. 

Page 3. 

"The Cambridge Churchyard." 

"The Goblet and the Sun" (Vas-Sol), 
sculptured on a freestone slab supported 
by five pillars, are the only designation of 
the family tomb of the Vassalls. 

Page 25. 

« 

" Thou calm, chaste scholar." 

Charles Chauncy Emerson ; died May 9, 

1836. 

Page 26. 

"And thou, dear friend." 

James Jackson, Jr., M. D.; died March 
28, 1834. 

Page 53. 

" Hark t The sweet bells renew their wel- 
come sound." 

The churches referred to in the lines 
which follow are, — 

1. " King's Chapel," the foundation of 
which was laid by Governor Shirley in 
1749. 

2. Brattle Street Church, consecrated 
in 1773. The completion of this edifice, 
the design of which included a spire, 
was prevented by the troubles of the 



Revolution, and its plain, square tower 
presents nothing more attractive than a 
massive simplicity. In the front of this 
tower is still seen, half imbedded in the 
brick-work, a cannon-ball, which was 
thrown from the American fortifications 
at Cambridge, during the bombardment of 
the city, then occupied by the British 
troops. 

3. The " Old South," first occupied for 
public worship in 1730. 

4. Park Street Church, built in 1809, 
the tall white steeple of which is the most 
conspicuous of all the Boston spires. 

5. Christ Church, opened for public 
worship in 1723, and containing a set of 
eight bells, until of late years the only 
chime in Boston. 

Page 89. ' 
Agnes. 

The story of Sir Harry Frankland 
and Agnes Surraige is told in the ballad 
with a very strict adhesion to the facts. 
These were obtained from information 
afforded me by the Rev. Mr. Webster 
of Hopkinton, in company with whom I 
visited the Frankland Mansion in that 
town, then standing ; from a very interest- 
ing Memoir, by the Rev. Elias Nason 
of Medford, not yet published ; and from 
the manuscript diary of Sir Harry, or more 
properly Sir Charles Henry Frankland, 
now in the library of the Massachusetts 
Historical Society. 

At the time of the visit referred to, old 



418 



NOTES, 



Julia was living, and on our return we 
called at the house where she resided. 1 
Her account is little more than paraphrased 
in the poem. If the incidents are treated 
with a certain liberality at the close of the 
fifth part, the essential fact that Agnes 
rescued Sir Harry from the ruins after the 
earthquake, and their subsequent marriage 
as related, may be accepted as literal truth. 
So with regard to most of the trifling de- 
tails which are given ; they are taken from 
the record. 

It is to be hoped that the Rev. Mr. 
Nason's Memoir will be published, that 
this extraordinary romance of our sober 
New England life may become familiar to 
that class of readers who prefer a rigorous 
statement to an embellished narrative. It 
will be found to contain many historical 
facts and allusions which add much to its 
romantic interest. 

It is greatly to be regretted that the 
Frankland Mansion no longer exists. It 
was accidentally burned on the 23d of 
January, 1858, a year or two after the first 
sketch of this ballad was written. A visit 
to it was like stepping out of the century 
into the years before the Revolution. A 
new house, similar in plan and arrange- 

i She was living June 10, 1861, when this 
ballad was published. 



ments to the old one, has been built upon 
its site, and the terraces, the clump of 
box, and the lilacs, doubtless remain to 
bear witness to the truth of this story. 



Since the above note was written the 
Rev. Mr. Nason's interesting Memoir of 
Sir Harry Frankland has been published. 

Page 300. 

Grandmother's Story of Bunker-Hill 
Battle. 

" They We as safe as BarCl Malcolm.''* 

The following epitaph is still to be read 
on a tall gravestone standing as yet un- 
disturbed among the transplanted monu- 
ments of the dead in Copp's Hill Burial- 
ground, one of the three city cemeteries 
which have been desecrated and ruined 
within my own remembrance : — 

" Here lies buried in a 

Stone Grave 10 feet deep, 

Capt Daniel Malcolm Mercht 

Who departed this Life 

October 23d, 1769, 

Aged 44 years, 

a true son of Liberty, 

a Friend to the Publick, 

an Enemy to oppression, 

and one of the foremost 

in opposing the Revenue Acta 

on America." 



INDEX. 



4^ 



INDEX OP FIRST LINES. 



A crazy bookcase, placed before, 205. 

A health to dear woman ! She bids us untwine, 

48. 
A health to him whose double wreath displays, 

400. 
A lovely show for eyes to see, 329. 
A prologue ? Well, of course the ladies know, 

166. 
A sick man's chamber, though it often boast, 

384. 
A still sweet, placid, moonlight face, 85. 
A triple health to Friendship, Science, Art, 

133. 
Afar he sleeps whose name is graven here, 403. 
Ah Clemence ! when I saw thee last, 78. 
Ah, here it is ! the sliding rail, 178. 
All overgrown with bush and fern, 151. 
Alone, beneath the darkened sky, 352. 
An usher standing at the door, 328. 
And can it be you 've found a place, 304. 
And what shall be the song to-night, 210. 
Angel of Death ! extend thy silent reign ! 123. 
Angel of love, for every grief, 382. 
Angel of Peace, thou hast wandered too long, 

290. 
Another clouded night ; the stars are hid, 188. 
As I look from the isle, o'er its billows of green, 

162. 
As Life's unending column pours, 162. 
As o'er the glacier's frozen sheet, 47. 
As the voice of the watch to the mariner's 

dream, 130. 
As through the forest, disarrayed, 243. 
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 1. 

Bankrupt ! our pockets inside out ! 329. 
Behold — not him we know ! 145. 
Behold the rocky wall, 141. 
Behold the shape our eyes have known ! 298. 
Brave singer of the coming time, 169. 
Bright on the banners of lily and rose, 306. 
" Bring me my broken harp," he said, 350. 
Brothers, whom we may not reach, 257. 

Changeless in beauty, rose-hues on her cheek, 

408. 
Chicago sounds rough to the maker of verse, 

341. 
Clear the brown path, to meet his coulter's 

gleam ! 97. 
Come back to your mother, ye children, for 

shame, 35. 
Come, dear old comrade, you and I, 207. 
Come ! fill a fresh bumper, for why should we 

go, 176. 
Come, heap the fagots ! Ere we go, 353. 



Come, spread your wings, as I spread mine, 127. 

Day hath put on his jacket, and around, 6. 

Dear friends, left darkling in the long eclipse, 
366. 

Dear friends, we are strangers; we never be- 
fore, 287. 

Dear Governor, if my skiff might brave, 125. 

Dearest, a look is but a ray, 80. 

Devoutest of my Sunday friends, 245. 

Do you know the Old Man of the Sea, of the 
Sea? 151. 

Eighty years have passed, and more, 154. 
Enchanter of Erin, whose magic has bound us, 

338. 
Ere yet the warning chimes of midnight sound. 

272. 

Facts respecting an old arm-chair, 174. 
Fallen with autumn's falling leaf, 382. 
Farewell, fox the bark has her breast to the 

tide, 137. 
Fast as the rolling seasons bring, 218. 
Father of Mercies, Heavenly Friend, 156. 
Father, send on earth again, 395. 
Fit emblem for the altar's side, 364. 
Flag of the heroes who left us their glory, 158. 
Flash out a stream of blood-red wine, 212. 
For him the Architect of all, 360. 
Four summers coined their golden light in 

leaves, 266. 
Friend, whom thy fourscore winters leave more 

dear, 366. 
Friend, you seem thoughtful. I not wonder 

much , 295. 
From the first gleam of morning to the gray, xvi. 
From this fair home behold on either side, 411. 
Full sevenscore years our city's pride, 311. 
Full well I know the frozen hand has come, 379. 

Giver of all that crowns our days, 253. 

Go seek thine earth-born sisters, — thus the 

Voice, 185. 
God bless our Fathers' Land ! 152. 
Grandmother's mother ; her age, I guess, 243. 

Hang out our banners on the stately tower ! 277. 
Has there any old fellow got mixed with the 

boys? 213. 
Have I deserved your kindness? Nay, my 

friends, 395. 
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss 

shay, 172. 
He rests from toil ; the portals of the tomb, 406. 
He sleeps not here ; in hope and prayer, 180. 
He was all sunshine ; in his face, 146. 



420 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Her hands are cold ; her face is white ; 177. 
Here ! sweep these foolish leaves away, 182. 
Here 's the old cruiser, 'Twenty-nine, 225. 
His birthday. — Nay, we need not speak, 150. 
How beauteous is the bond, 410. 
How long will this harp which you once loved 

to hear, 221. 
" How many have gone? " was the question of 

old, 335. 
How sweet the sacred legend — if unblamed, 

117. 
How the mountains talked together, 294. 
How to address him ? awkward, it is true, 314. 

I asked three little maidens who heard the or- 
gan play, 395. 

I believe that the copies of verses I 've spun, 
330. 

I bring the simplest pledge of love, 340. 

I don't think I feel much older ; I 'm aware 
I 'm rather gray, 334. 

I give you the health of the oldest friend, 220. 

I have come with my verses — I think I may 
claim, 233. 

I hold a letter in my hand, 132. 

I like, at times, to hear the steeples' chimes, 
237. 

I like you met I love you, face to face, 41 1. 

I love all sights of earth and skies, 377. 

I love to hear thine earnest voice, 3. 

I may not rightly call thy name, 142. 

I must leave thee, lady sweet ! 46. 

I pray thee by the soul of her that bore thee, 
179. 

I remember — why yes ! God bless me ! and 
was it so long ago ? 293. 

I saw him once before, 1. 

I saw the curl of his waving lash, 5. 

I sometimes sit beneath a tree, 12. 

I stood on Sarum's treeless plain, 356. 

I suppose it 's myself that you 're making allu- 
sion to, 296. 

I thank you, Mr. President, you've kindly 
broke the ice, 147. 

I was sitting with my microscope, upon my 
parlor rug, 36. 

I was thinking last night, as I sat in the cars, 38. 

I wrote some lines once on a time, 12. 

If all the trees in all the woods were men, 411. 

If every tongue that speaks her praise, 362. 

If sometimes in the dark blue eye, 85. 

I 'm ashamed, — that 's the fact, — it 's a pitiful 
case, 214. 

I 'm not a chicken ; I have seen, 11. 

In candent ire the solar splendor flames, 171. 

In narrowest girdle, O reluctant Muse, 64. 

In poisonous dens, where traitors hide, 251. 

In the hour of twilight shadows, 27. 

In the little southern parlor of the house you 
may have seen, 181. 

Is it a weanling's weakness for the past, 379. 

Is man's the only throbbing heart that hides, 
121. 

Is thy name Mary, maiden fair ? 79. 

It is a pity and a shame — alas ! alas ! I know 
it is, 235. 

It is not what we say or sing, 222. 

It may be so, — perhaps thou hast, 82. 

It may be, yes, it must be, Time that brings, 
227. 

It was a tall young oysterman lived by the riv- 
erside, 83. 



It was not many centuries since, 71. 
It was the stalwart butcher man, 74. 

Kiss mine eyelids, beauteous Morn, 187. 

Lady, life's sweetest lesson wouldst thou leans, 

411. 
Land where the banners wave last in the sun, 155, 
Leader of armies, Israel's God, 299. 
Let greener lands and bluer skies, 79. 
Like the tribes of Israel, 221. 
Listen, young heroes ! your country is calling ! 

251. 
Little I ask ; my wants are few, 170 o 
Look our ransomed shores around, 387. 
Look out ! Look out, boys ! Clear the track ! 412. 
Lord of all being ! throned afar, 178. 
Lord, Thou hast led us as of old, 381. 
" Lucy." — The old familiar name, 298. 

My aunt ! my dear unmarried aunt ! 4. 

Nay, blame me not ; I might have spared, xv. 

New England, we love thee ; no time can erase, 
136. 

No fear lest praise should make us proud ! 181. 

No life worth naming ever comes to good, 105. 

No more the summer floweret charms, 33. 

No mystic charm, no mortal art, 271. 

No ! never such a draught was poured, 247. 

Not bed-time yet ! The night-winds blow, 352. 

Not charity we ask, 141. 

Not in the world of light alone, 143. 

Not to myself this breath of vesper song, 315. 

Not with the anguish of hearts that are break- 
ing, 274. 

Now, by the blessed Paphian queen, 4. 

Now, men of the North ! will you join in the 
strife, 219. 

Now, smiling friends and shipmates all, 262. 

Now, while our soldiers are fighting our battles, 
157. 

O even-handed Nature ! we confess, 259. 

O for one hour of youthful joy ! 210. 

O God ! in danger's darkest hour, 253. 

O Lord of Hosts ! Almighty King ! 155. 

O Love Divine, that stooped to share, 177. 

O my lost beauty ! — hast thou folded quite, 162. 

O, there are times, 6. 

O, thou of soul and sense and breath, 266. 

O'ershadowed by the walls that climb, 381. 

Oh ! I did love her dearly, 80. 

Old Rip Van Winkle had a grandson, Rip, 280. 

Old Time, in whose bank we deposit our notes, 

233. 
Once more Orion and the sister Seven, 363. 
Once more, ye sacred towers, 275. 
One broad, white sail in Spezzia's treacherous 

bay, 129. 
One country ! Treason's writhing asp, 252. 
One memory trembles on our lips, 23l. 
One word to the guest we have gathered to 

greet ! 256. 
" Only a housemaid ! " She looked from the 

kitchen, 308. 
Our ancient church ! its lowly tower, 2. 
Our Father ! while our hearts unlearn, 406. 
Our poet, who has taught the Western breeze, 

263. 

Perhaps too far in these considerate days, 103. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



421 



Poor conquered monarch ! though that haughty 

glance, 75. 
Precisely. I see it. You all want to say, 229. 
Pride of the sister realm so long our own, 361. 
Proud of her clustering spires, her new-built 

towers, 367. 
Proudly, beneath her glittering dome, 399. 

" Qui vive ! " The sentry's musket rings, 86. 

Reader — gentle — if so be, 241. 

Say not the Poet dies ! 274. 
Scarce could the parting ocean close, 134. 
Scene, — a back parlor in a certain square, 39. 
Scenes of my youth ! awake its slumbering fire! 

13. 
See how yon flaming herald treads, 29. 
Sexton! Martha 's dead and gone, 146. 
Shadowed so long by the storm-cloud of dan- 
ger, 255. 
She gathered at her slender waist, 354. 
She has gone, — she has left us in passion and 

pride, 153. 
She twirled the string of golden beads, 77. 
Shine soft, ye trembling tears of light, 128. 
Sire, son, and grandson ; so the century glides, 

341. 
Sister, we bid you welcome, — we who stand, 

362. 
Slow toiling upward from the misty vale, 248. 
Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping, 

29. 
Strange ! that one lightly whispered tone, 80. 
Such kindness ! the scowl of a cynic would 

soften, 337. 
Sweet Mary, I have never breathed, 78. 

Teachers of teachers ! yours the task, 405. 
Tell me, O Provincial ! speak, Cerulec-Nasal ! 

182. 
That age was older once than now, 165. 
The Banker's dinner is the stateliest feast, 111. 
The Caliph ordered up his cook, 288. 
The clock has struck noon ; ere it thrice tell 

the hours, 209. 
The Comet ! He is on his way, 9. 
The curtain rose ; in thunders long and loud, 

105. 
The dinner-bell, the dinner-bell ! 84. 
The dirge is played, the throbbing death-peal 

rung, 232. 
"The Dutch have taken Holland," — so the 

schoolboys used to say, 376. 
The feeble sea-birds, blinded in the storms, 45. 
The folks, that on the first of May, 84. 
The fount the Spaniard sought in vain, 289. 
The friends that are, and friends that were, 215. 
The glory has passed from the goldenrod's 

plume, 415. 
The god looked out upon the troubled deep, 

320. 
The house was crammed from roof to floor, 245. 
The land of sunshine and of song ! 153. 
The minstrel of the classic lay, 354. 
The mountains glitter in the snow, 137. 
The muse of boyhood's fervid hour, 236. 
The noon of summer sheds its ray, 148. 
The painter's and the poet's fame, 263. 
The piping of our slender, peaceful reeds, 87. 
The Play is over. While the light, 408. 
The pledge of Friendship ! it is still divine, 48. 



The seed that wasteful autumn cast, 126. 

The Ship of State ! above her skies are blue. 

315. 
The stars are rolling in the sky, 10. 
The stars their early vigils keep, 34. 
The summer dawn is breaking, 208. 
The sunbeams, lost for half a year, 165. 
The sun-browned girl, whose limbs recline, 77. 
The sun stepped down from his golden throne, 

76. 
The tale I tell is gospel true, 89. 
The two proud sisters of the sea, 86. 
The waves unbuild the wasting shore, 367. 
The wreath that star-crowned Shelley gave, 129. 
There are three ways in which men take, 9. 
There is no time like the old time, when you 

and I were young, 384. 
There was a giant in time of old, 7. 
There was a sound of hurrying feet, 72. 
There was a young man in Boston town, 43. 
There 's a thing that grows by the fainting 

flower, 73. 
These hallowed precincts, long to memory dear, 

343. 
They bid me strike the idle strings, 33. 
They tell us that the muse is soon to fly hence, 

336. 
This ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good 

old times, 30. 
This is our place of meeting ; opposite, 357. 
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 

161. 
This is your month, the month of " perfect 

days," 364. 
This shred of song you bid me bring, 355. 
Thou Gracious Power, whose mercy lends, 227. 
Thou shouldst have sung the swan-song for the 

choir, 402. 
Thou, too, hast left us. While with heads 

bowed low, 404. 
Thou who hast taught the teachers of mankind, 

264. 
Though watery deserts hold apart, 255. 
Though young no more, we still would dream, 

170. 
Three paths there be where Learning's favored 

sons, 390. 
Through my north window, in the wintry 

weather, 326. 
Thus I lift the sash, so long, 241. 
Time is a thief who leaves his tools behind him, 

356. 
'$is like stirring living embers when, at eighty, 

one remembers, 300. 
'Tis midnight: through my troubled dream, 

216. 
'Tis sweet to fight our battles o'er, 145. 
To God's anointed and his chosen flock, 331. 
Too young for love, 412. 

Trained in the holy art whose lifted shield, 300. 
Truth : So the frontlet's older legend ran, 331. 
'T was a vision of childhood that came with its 

dawn, 131. 
'Twas on the famous trotting-ground, 309. 
Twice had the mellowing sun of autumn 

crowned, 367. 

Vex not the Muse with idle prayers, 416 . 

Wan-visaged thing ! thy virgin leaf, 81. 
Washed in the blood of the brave and the 
blooming, 252. 



422 



INDEX OF FTKST LINES. 



We count the brosen lyres that rest, 141. 
We sing " Our Country's " song to-night, 215. 
We trust and fear, we question and believe, 105. 
We welcome you, Lords of the Land of the 

Sun ! 258. 
We will not speak of years to-night, 144. 
Welcome to the day returning, 138. 
Welcome, thrice welcome is thy silvery gleam, 

387. 
Well, Miss, I wonder where you live, 8. 
What ailed young Lucius? Art had vainly 

tried, 115. 
What flower is this that greets the morn, 156. 
What is a poet's love ? 81. 
What makes the Healing Art divine ? 149. 
Whatever I do, and whatever I say, 187. 
When Advent dawns with lessening days, 

383. 
When Eve had led her lord away, 168. 
When evening's shadowy fingers fold, 394. 
When legislators keep the law, 168. 
When life hath run its largest round, 139. 
When o'er the street the morning peal is flung, 

102. 
When rose the cry " Great Pan is dead ! " 312. 
When the Puritans came over, 32. 
When treason first began the strife, 261. 
Where are you going, soldiers, 250. 
Where, girt around by savage foes, 275. 
Where is this patriarch you are kindly greet- 

ing? 321. 
Where, O where, are the visions of morning, 

209. 
While far along the eastern sky, 246. 
While fond, sad memories all around us throng, 

323. 
While in my simple gospel creed, 414. 



Who claims our Shakespeare from that realm 

unknown, 270. 
"Who gave this cup?" The secret thou 

wouldst steal, 410. 
Who is the shepherd sent to lead, 144. 
Who, of all statesmen, is his country's pride, 

120. 
Why linser round the sunken wrecks, 406. 
" Will I come f " That is pleasant ! I beg to 

inquire, 223. 
Winter is past ; the heart of Nature warms, 99. 
Winter's cold drift lies glistening o'er his 

breast, 268. 

Ye that have faced the billows and the spray, 

108. 
Ye who yourselves of larger worth esteem, 

403. 
Yes, dear departed, cherished days, 33. 
Yes, dear Enchantress, — wandering far and 

long, 49. 
Yes ! the vacant chairs tell sadly we are going, 

going fast, 332. 
Yes, tyrants, you hate us, and fear while you 

hate, 217. 
Yes, we knew we must lose him, — though 

friendship may claim, 164. 
Yes, write, if you want to, there 's nothing like 

trying, 306. 
Yet in the darksome crypt I left so late, 100. 
Yon whey-faced brother, who delights to wear, 

103. 
You bid me sing, — can I forget, 286. 
You '11 believe me, dear boys, 't is a pleasure to 

rise, 211. 
Your home was mine, — kind Nature's gift, 

389. 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



PAGE 

1 ' Ad Amicos " 236 

Additional Poems (1837-1848) 27 

Additional Poems (to 1877) 293 

Address for Opening of Fifth Ave. Theatre 277 

.Estivation 171 

After a Lecture on Keats 129 

After a Lecture on Moore 128 

After a Lecture on Shelley 129 

After a Lecture on Wordsworth 127 

After-dinner Poem, An 64 

After the Curfew 408 

After the Fire 246 

Agnes 89 

Album Verses 168 

All here 222 

America to Russia 256 

American Academy Centennial Celebra- 
tion 341 

Angel-Thief, The 356 

Appeal for the Old South, An 311 

Archbishop, The, and Gil Bias 334 

Army Hymn 155 

At my Fireside 352 

At the Papyrus Club 329 

At the Saturday Club 357 

At the Turn of the Road 415 

At the Unitarian Festival 367 

Atlantic Dinner, At the 296 

Aunt, My 4 

Aunt Tabitha 187 

Ave 379 

Aviary, My 326 

Avis 142 

Bachelor's Private Journal, From a 78 

Ballad of the Boston Tea Party, A 247 

Ballad of the Oysterman, The 83 

Bankers' Dinner, The Ill 

Banquet to the Chinese Embassy, At the . . 257 

Banquet to the Grand Duke Alexis, At the 256 

Banquet to the Japanese Embassy, At the 258 

Before the Curfew 352 

Bells, The 102 

Bill and Joe 207 

Birthday Festival, At a 144 

Birthday of Daniel Webster 139 

Birtbday Tribute, A 144 

Blank Sheet of Paper, To a 81 

Boston Common 151 

Boston to Florence 367 

Boston Young Men's Christian Union, 
Hymn written for the Twenty-fifth An- 
niversary of the Reorganization of the . . . 406 
Boys, The 213 



PAGE 

Broken Circle, The 356 

Broomstick Train, The 412 

Brother Jonathan's Lament 153 

Bryant's Seventieth Birthday 259 

Burns' Centennial Celebration, For the .... 150 
But One Talent 403 

Cacoethes Scribendi 411 

Caged Lion, To a , 75 

Cambridge Churchyard, The 2 

Canaan, To 250 

Chambered Nautilus, The 161 

Chanson without Music 286 

" Choose you this Day " 217 

Christian Gottfried Ehrenberg, To 264 

Close of a Course of Lectures, At the 130 

Comet, The 9 

Coming Era, The 336 

Contentment 170 

Crooked Footpath, The 178 

Daily Trials 6 

De Sauty 182 

Deacon's Masterpiece, The 172 

Death of President Garfield, On the 382 

Dedication of the Halleck Monument 274 

Dedication of the New City Library, Bos- 
ton, For the 399 

Dedication of the Pittsfield Cemetery 123 

Departed Days 33 

Dilemma, The 4 

Dinner to Admiral Farragut, At a 262 

Dinner to General Grant, At a 261 

Disappointed Statesman, The 120 

Dorchester Giant, The 7 

Dorothy Q 243 

Earldsr Poems 1 

Edward Everett 268 

English Friend, To an 126 

Epilogue to the Breakfast-table Series 205 

Even Song 227 

Evening, by a Tailor 6 

Evening Thought, An 85 

Extracts from a Medical Poem 45 

Familiar Letter, A 306 

Family Record, A 315 

Fantasia 187 

Farewell to Agassiz, A 294 

Farewell to J. R. Lowell 137 

First Fan, The 312 

First Verses 320 

Flaneur, The 377 



424 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



PAGE 

Flower of Liberty, The 156 

For Class Meeting 235 

For the Centennial Dinner of the Proprie- 
tors of Boston Pier 287 

For the Commemoration Services 266 

For the Dedication of the New City Libra- 
ry, Boston 399 

For the Moore Centennial Celebration 338 

For the Window in St. Margaret's 403 

For Whittier's Seventieth Birthday 330 

Fountain of Youth, The 289 

Freedom, Our Queen 155 

F. W. C 218 

Girdle of Friendship, The 354 

God save the Flag 252 

Golden Flower, The 383 

Good Time Going, A 169 

Governor Swain, To 125 

Grandmother's Story of Bunker Hill Battle 300 
Gray Chief, The 145 

H. C. M., H. S., J. K. W : 232 

Hail, Columbia ! 386 

Harvard. Read at Commencement Dinner, 

July 1, 1880 408 

Harvard College, Poem for the Two Hun- 
dred and Fiftieth Anniversary of the 

Founding of 367 

Height of the Ridiculous, The 12 

Homesick in Heaven 185 

Hot Season, The Si- 
How not to settle it 237 

How the Old Horse won the Bet 309 

Hudson, The 131 

Humboldt's Birthday 272 

H. W. Longfellow, To 263 

Hymn after Emancipation Proclamation. . . 253 
Hymn at the Funeral of Charles Sumner . . 275 

Hymn for the Chicago Fair 253 

Hymn for the Class-Meeting 227 

Hymn for the Dedication of the Harvard 

Memorial Hall 275 

Hymn for the Inauguration of the Andrew 

Statue 298 

Hymn for the Laying of the Corner Stone 

of Harvard Memorial Hall 274 

Hymn for the Twenty-fifth Anniversary of 
the Reorganization of the Boston Young 

Men's Christian Union 406 

Hymn for the Two Hundredth Anniversary 

of King's Chapel 381 

Hymn of Peace, A 290 

Hymn of Trust 177 

Hymn read at the Dedication of the Oliver 
Wendell Holmes Hospital at Hudson, 

Wisconsin 382 

Hymn. The Word of Promise 381 

Hymn written for the Great Central Fair 
in Philadelphia 395 

I Like You and I Love You 411 

Illustration of a Picture 77 

Impromptu, An 209, 395 

In Response 337 

In the Quiet Days 243 

In War Time 250 

Insect, To an 3 

International Ode 152 

Invito Minerva" 416 

Iris, Her Book 179 

Iron Gate, The 321 



PA SB 

Island Hunting Song, The 33 

Island Ruin, The ' ' ' \Qg 

J-D-R 215 

Joseph Warren, M. D 306 

King's Chapel. Read at the Two Hun- 
dredth Anniversary 379 

La Grisette 73 

La Maison d*Or 411 

Last Blossom, The 17C 

Last Charge, The 219 

Last Leaf, The 1 

Last Look, The 145 

Last Reader, The 12 

Last Survivor, The 332 

Latter-day Warnings 168 

Lexington , 29 

L'Inconnue 79 

Lines 214 

Lines by a Clerk 80 

Lines recited at the Berkshire Festival 35 

Living Temple, The 143 

Loving-Cup Song, A 353 

Lowell, James Russell, To (1889) 400 

LoweU, James Russell (1819-1891) 402 

Lucy 298 

Lyre of Anacreon, The 355 

Mare Rubrum 212 

Martha 146 

Meeting of Friends, At a 293 

Meeting of the Alumni of Harvard College 147 

Meeting of the Am. Medical Association. . . 132 

Meeting of the Burns Club, For the 137 

Meeting of the Dryads, The 71 

Meeting of the Nat. Sanitary Association . . 149 

Memorial Tribute, A 299 

Memorial Verses 266 

Memory of C. W. Upham, Jr., In 146 

Memory of John and Robert Ware, In 271 

Memory of John Greenleaf Whittier, In . . . 404 

Midsummer 1 82 

Mind's Diet, The 105 

Miscellaneous Poems 71 

Modest Request, A 39 

Moral Bully, The 103 

Morning Visit, The 384 

Mother's Secret, A 117 

Musa 163 

Music Grinders, The 9 

My Annual 221 

Mysterious Illness, The 115 

Mysterious Visitor, The 72 

Nearing the Snow Line 248 

Never or Now 251 

New Eden, The 134 

Non-Resistance 103 

Noontide Lyric, A 84 

No Time like the Old Time 384 

Nux Postccenatica 36 

Ode for a Social Meeting (with alterations) 178 

Ode for Washington's Birthday 138 

Old Cambridge 304 

Old Cruiser, The 225 

Old Ironsides * 

Old Man dreams, The 210 

Old Man of the Sea, The 151 

Old Player, The 105 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



425 



PAGE 

Old Tune, The 355 

Old Year Song, An 243 

On Lending a Punch-Bowl 30 

On the Threshold 328 

Once More 223 

One Country 252 

Only Daughter, The 33 

Opening of the Piano, The 181 

Opening the Window 241 

Organ Blower, The 245 

Our Banker 233 

Our Dead Singer. H. W. L 361 

Our Home. — Our Country 389 

Our Indian Summer 211 

Our Limitations 105 

Our Oldest Friend 220 

Our Sweet Singer 231 

Our Yankee Girls 79 

Pantomime, At the 245 

Parkman, Francis 406 

Parson Turell's Legacy 174 

Parting Health, A 164 

Parting Hymn 156 

Parting Song, The 148 

Parting Word, The 46 

Peau de Chagrin of State Street, The 410 

Peirce, Benjamin 360 

Philosopher to his Love, The 80 

Pictures from Occasional Poems 99 

Pilgrim's Vision, The 27 

Ploughman, The 97 

Poem at the Centennial Dinner of the 

Massachusetts Medical Society 390 

Poem at the Dinner given to the Author by 

the Medical Profession of New York 395 

Poem for the Dedication of the Fountain at 

Stratford-on-Avon 387 

Poem served to Order, A 298 

Poems from the Autocrat 161 

Poems from the Professor 177 

Poems from the Poet 1S5 

Poems from Over the Teacups 405 

Poems of the Class of '29 207 

Poet's Lot, The 81 

Poetry ; a Metrical Essay 13 

Portrait, A 85 

Portrait of a Gentleman, To the 82 

Portrait of a Lady, To the 8 

Post-Prandial 376 

Prelude to a Volume printed in Raised Let- 
ters for the Blind 366 

Programme 241 

Prologue 166 

Promise, The 141 

Questions and Answers 209 

" Qui Vive " 86 

R. B. H., To 314 

Readers, To my xv 

Reflections of a Proud Pedestrian 5 

Remember — Forget 210 

Rhymed Lesson, A 49 

Rhymes of an Hour 277 

Rip Van Winkle, M. D 280 

Robinson of Leyden 180 

Roman Aqueduct, A 77 

Rose and the Fern, The 411 

School-Boy, The 343 



PAGE 

Sea Dialogue, A 295 

Secret of the Stars, The 121 

Semi-Centennial Celebration of the New 

England Society . 136 

Sentiment, A 48 

Sentiment, A 13S 

September Gale, The 11 

Services in Memory of Abraham Lincoln. . . 266 

Shadows, The 335 

Shakespeare 270 

Sherman 's in Savannah 221 

Ship of State, The 314 

Silent Melody, The 350 

Smiling Listener, The 229 

Song for a Temperance Dinner 43 

Song for Centennial Celebration of Har- 
vard College 32 

Song for the Dinner to Charles Dickens. . . 34 

Song of Other Days, A 47 

Song of Twenty-Nine, A 208 

Songs in Many Keys 87 

Songs of Many Seasons 241 

Songs of Welcome and Farewell 255 

Spectre Pig, The 74 

Spring 99 

Spring has come 165 

St. Anthony the Reformer 181 

Stanzas 80 

Star and the Water-Lily, The 76 

Statesman, The Disappointed ... 120 

Steamboat, The 29 

Stethoscope Song, The 43 

Study, The 100 

Sun and Shadow 162 

Sun-day Hymn, A 178 

Sweet Little Man, The 157 

Tartarus 414 

Teachers of America, To the 405 

" Thus saith the Lord " 251 

To Frederick Henry Hedge 364 

To George Peabody 329 

To James Freeman Clarke 340 

To James Russell Lowell 364 

To James Russell Lowell, on his Seventieth 

Birthday 400 

To John Greenleaf Whittier 366 

To the Eleven Ladies who presented me 

with a Silver Loving Cup 410 

To the Poets who only Read and Listen . . . 389 

To the Teachers of America 405 

Toadstool, The 73 

Toast to Wilkie Collins, A 263 

Too Young for Love 412 

Treadmill Song, The 10 

Two Armies, The 162 

Two Poems to Harriet Beecher Stowe 362 

Two Sonnets : Harvard 331 

Two Streams, The 141 

Under the Violets 177 

Under the Washington Elm 154 

Union and Liberty 158 

Unsatisfied 308 

Verses for Af ter-Dinner 38 

Vestigia quinque retrorsum 323 

Vignettes 127 

Vive la France 153 

Voice of the Loyal North, A 215 

Voiceless, The 141 



426 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



PAGE 

Voyage of the Good Ship Union 216 

Wasp and the Hornet, The 86 

Welcome to Dr. Benjamin Apthorp Gould, A 363 
Welcome to the Chicago Commercial Club 341 

Welcome to the Grand Duke Alexis 255 

Welcome to the Nations 306 

What I hare come for 233 



PAGE 

What we all think 165 

Whittier, John Greenleaf, In Memory of. . 404 

Wind-Clouds and Star-Drifts 188 

Window in St. Margaret's, For the 403 

Youth. Read at the Thirty -first Anniver- 
sary of the Boston Young Men's Christian 
Union 408 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




012 074 519 Q 



I mm 



wnnKHn 



